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THE  PLAYBOY  OF  THE  WESTERN  WORLD 


By  the  Same  Writer 

THE  ARAN  ISLANDS 
Illustrated  by 
Jack  B.  Yeats 

THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 
IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 
RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 
THE  TINKER’S  WEDDING 
DEIRDRE  OF  THE  SORROWS 
KERRY  AND  WICKLOW 
POEMS  AND  TRANSLATIONS 


THE  PLAYBOY  OF  THE 
WESTERN  WORLD 

A COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 
By  J.  M.  SYNGE 


JOHN  W.  LUCE  & COMPANY 
BOSTON  I I I I : : : : : : iqii 


Copyright  1907 
By  J.  M.  Synge 


First  Printed^  February^  igoy 
Reprinted^  Aprils  igoy 
Reprinted^  June ^ igog 
Reprinted^  November^  igio 
First  American  Edition^  June^  igii 


THE  PLAYBOY  OF  THE  WESTERN  WORLD 


PREFACE 


In  writing  The  Playboy  of  the  Western 
World,  as  in  my  other  plays,  I have  used  one 
or  two  words  only  that  I have  not  heard 
among  the  country  people  of  Ireland,  or 
spoken  in  my  own  nursery  before  I could  read 
the  newspapers.  A certain  number  of  the 
phrases  I employ  I have  heard  also  from  herds 
and  fishermen  along  the  coast  from  Kerry  to 
Mayo,  or  from  beggar-women  and  ballad- 
singers  nearer  Dublin ; and  I am  glad  to 
acknowledge  how  much  I owe  to  the  folk- 
imagination  of  these  fine  people.  Anyone  who 
has  lived  in  real  intimacy  with  the  Irish 
peasantry  will  know  that  the  wildest  sayings 
and  ideas  in  this  play  are  tame  indeed,  com- 
pared with  the  fancies  one  may  hear  in  any 
little  hillside  cabin  in  Geesala,  or  Carraroe,  or 
Dingle  Bay.  All  art  is  a collaboration ; and 
there  is  little  doubt  that  in  the  happy  ages  of 
literature,  striking  and  beautiful  phrases  were 
as  ready  to  the  story-teller’s  or  the  play- 
wright’s hand,  as  the  rich  cloaks  and  dresses 
of  his  time.  It  is  probable  that  when  the 
Elizabethan  dramatist  took  his  ink-horn  and 
sat  down  to  his  work  he  used  many  phrases 


pA 


VI 


Preface 


that  he  had  just  heard,  as  he  sat  at  dinner, 
from  his  mother  or  his  children.  In  Ireland, 
those  of  us  who  know  the  people  have  the 
same  privilege.  When  I was  writing  “ The 
Shadow  of  the  Glen,”  some  years  ago,  I got 
more  aid  than  any  learning  could  have  given 
me  from  a chink  in  the  floor  of  the  old  Wick- 
low house  where  I was  staying,  that  let  me 
hear  what  was  being  said  by  the  servant  girls 
in  the  kitchen.  This  matter,  I think,  is  of 
importance,  for  in  countries  where  the  imagin- 
ation of  the  people,  and  the  language  they  use, 
is  rich  and  living,  it  is  possible  for  a writer 
to  be  rich  and  copious  in  his  words,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  give  the  reality,  which  is  the 
root  of  all  poetry,  in  a comprehensive  and 
natural  form.  In  the  modern  literature  of 
towns,  however,  richness  is  found  only  in 
sonnets,  or  prose  poems,  or  in  one  or  two 
elaborate  books  that  are  far  away  from  the 
profound  and  common  interests  of  life.  One 
has,  on  one  side,  Mallarme  and  Huysmans 
producing  this  literature;  and  on  the  other, 
Ibsen  and  Zola  dealing  with  the  reality  of  life 
in  joyless  and  pallid  words.  On  the  stage  one 
must  have  reality,  and  one  must  have  joy ; and 
that  is  why  the  intellectual  modern  drama  has 
failed,  and  people  have  grown  sick  of  the  false 


Preface 


VII 


joy  of  the  musical  comedy,  that  has  been  given 
them  in  place  of  the  rich  joy  found  only  in 
what  is  superb  and  wild  in  reality.  |jn  a good  | 
play  every  speech  should  be  as  fully  flavoured  | 
as  a nut  or  appl^and  such  speeches  cannot  be  j 
written  by  anyone  who  works  among  people 
who  have  shut  their  lips  on  poetry.  In  Ireland, 
for  a few  years  more,  we  have  a popular 
imagination  that  is  fieiy  and  magnificent,  and 
tender;  so  that  those  of  us  who  wish  to  write 
start  with  a chance  that  is  not  given  to  writers 
in  places  where  the  springtime  of  the  local  life 
has  been  forgotten,  and  the  harvest  is  a 
memory  only,  and  the  straw  has  been  turned 
into  bricks. 


January  21st,  ipoj. 


J.  M.  S. 


PERSONS 


Christopher  Mahon.  ^ 4 - 

Old  Mahon,  his  father,  a squatter. 

Michael  James  Flaherty  (called 
Michael  James),  a publican. 

Margaret  Flaherty  {called  Pegeen 
Mike),  his  daughter. 

Widow  Quin,  a woman  of  about  thirty. 

Shawn  Keough,  her  cousin,  a young 
farmer. 

Philly  Cullen  and  Jimmy  Farrell, 
small  farmers. 

Sara  Tansey,  Susan  Brady,  and 
Honor  Blake,  village  girls. 

A Bellman. 

Some  Peasants. 

The  action  takes  place  near  a village,  on  a 
wild  coast  of  Mayo.  The  first  Act  passes  on 
an  evening  of  autumn,  the  other  two  Acts  on 
the  following  day. 


r 


THE  PLAYBOY  OF  THE 
WESTERN  WORLD 


ACT  I. 

Scene:  Country  public-house  or  shebeen, 
very  rough  and  untidy.  There  is  a sort  of 
"^counter  on  the  right  with  shelves,  holding  many 
bottles  and  jugs,  just  seen  above  it.  Empty 
barrels  stand  near  the  counter.  At  back,  a 
little  to  left  of  counter,  there  is  a door  into 
the  open  air,  then,  more  to  the  left,  there  is 
a settle  with  shelves  above  it,  with  more  jugs, 
and  0 table  beneath  a window.  At  the  left  there 
is  a large  open  fire-place,  with  turf  fire,  and 
a small  door  into  inner  room.  Pegeen,  a wild- 
looking but  fine  girl,  of  about  twenty,  is  writ- 
ing at  table.  She  is  dressed  in  the  usual 
peasant  dress. 

PEGEEN  — slowly  as  she  writes: — Six 
yards  of  stuff  for  to  make  a yellow  gown.  A 
pair  of  lace  boots  with  lengthy  heels  on  them 
and  brassy  eyes.  A hat  is  suited  for  a wed- 
ding-day. A fine  tooth  comb.  To  be  sent  with 
three  barrels  of  porter  in  Jimmy  Farrell’s  creel 
cart  on  the  evening  of  the  coming  Fair  to 
Mister  Michael  James  Flaherty.  With  the 


lo  The  Playboy  of 

best  compliments  of  this  season.  Margaret 
Flaherty. 

SHAWN  KEOGH  — a fat  and  fair  young 
man  comes  in  as  she  signs,  looks  round  awk- 
wardly, when  he  sees  she  is  alone. — Where’s 
^ himself? 

PEGEEN  — without  looking  at  him. — 
He’s  coming.  {She  directs  the  letter.)  To 
Mister  Sheamus  Mulroy,  Wine  and  Spirit 
Dealer,  Castlebar. 

SHAWN  — uneasily. — I didn’t  see  him  on 
the  road. 

PEGEEN.  How  would  you  see  him  {licks 
stamp  and  puts  it  on  letter)  and  it  dark  night 
this  half  hour  gone  by? 

SHAWN  — turning  towards  the  door 
again. — I stood  a while  outside  wondering 
would  I have  a right  to  pass  on  or  to  walk  in 
and  see  you,  Pegeen  Mike  {comes  to  fire), 
and  I could  hear  the  cows  breathing,  and  sigh- 
ing in  the  stillness  of  the  air,  and  not  a step 
moving  any  place  from  this  gate  to  the  bridge. 

PEGEEN  — putting  letter  in  envelope. — 
It’s  above  at  the  cross-roads  he  is,  meeting 
Philly  Cullen;  and  a couple  more  are  going 
along  with  him  to  Kate  Cassidy’s  wake. 

SHAWN  — looking  at  her  blankly. — And 
he’s  going  that  length  in  the  dark  night? 


{ the  Western  World  ii 

! PEGEEN  impatiently. — He  is  surely, 

and  leaving  me  lonesome  on  the  scruff  of  the 
hill.  {She  gets  up  and  puts  envelope  on 
dresser,  then  winds  clock.)  Isn’t  it  long  the 
nights  are  now,  Shawn  Keogh,  to  be  leaving  a 
j poor  girl  with  her  own  self  counting  the  hours 
j to  the  dawn  of  day? 

“^'ith  awkward  humour. — If  it 
I is,  when  we’re  wedded  in  a short  while  you’ll 
have  no  call  to  complain,  for  I’ve  little  will  to 
be  walking  off  to  wakes  or  weddings  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night. 

PEGEEN  — with  rather  scornful  good 
I humour.— Yon’ making  mighty  certain, 

) Shanecn,  that  I II  wed  you  now. 

SHAWN.  Aren’t  we  after  making  a good 
bargain,  the  way  we’re  only  waiting  these  days 
on  Father  Reilly’s  dispensation  from  the 
bishops,  or  the  Court  of  Rome. 

PEGEEN — looking  at  him  teasingly,  wash- 
ing up  at  dresser.  It’s  a wonder,  Shaneen, 
the  Holy  Father’d  be  taking  notice  of  the  likes 
of  you;^  for  if  I was  him  I wouldn’t  bother 
with  this  place  where  you’ll  meet  none  but 
Red  Linahan,  has  a squint  in  his  eye,  and 
Patcheen  is  lame  in  his  heel,  or  the  mad 
Mulrannies  were  driven  from  California  and 
they  lost  in  their  wits.  We’re  a queer  lot  these 


12  The  Playboy  of 

times  to  go  troubling  the  Holy  Father  on  his 
sacred  seat. 

SHAWN  — scandalized. — If  we  are,  we’re 
as  good  this  place  as  another,  maybe,  and  as 
good  these  times  as  we  were  for  ever. 

PEGEEN  — with  scorn. — As  good,  is  it? 
Where  now  will  you  meet  the  like  of  Daneen 
Sullivan  knocked  the  eye  from  a peeler,  or 
Marcus  Quin,  God  rest  him,  got  six  months 
for  maiming  ewes,  and  he  a great  warrant  to 
tell  stories  of  holy  Ireland  till  he ’d  have  the 
old  women  shedding  down  tears  about  their 
feet.  Where  will  you  find  the  like  of  them, 
I’m  saying? 

SHAWN  — timidly. — If  you  don’t,  it’s  a 
good  job,  maybe;  for  (with  peculiar  emphasis 
on  the  words)  Father  Reilly  has  small  conceit 
to  have  that  kind  walking  around  and  talking 
to  the  girls. 

PEGEEN  — impatiently,  throwing  water 
from  basin  out  of  the  door. — Stop  tormenting 
me  with  Father  Reilly  (imitating  his  voice) 
when  I’m  asking  only  what  way  I’ll  pass  these 
twelve  hours  of  dark,  and  not  take  my  death 
with  the  fear. 

[Looking  out  of  door. 

SHAWN  — timidly. — Would  I fetch  you 
the  widow  Quin,  maybe? 


THE  Western  World 


13 

PEGEEN.  Is  it  the  like  of  that  murderer  ? 
You’ll  not,  surely. 

SHAWN  — going  to  her,  soothingly. — 
Then  I’m  thinking  himself  will  stop  along  with 
you  when  he  sees  you  taking  on,  for  it’ll  be  a 
long  night-time  with  great  darkness,  and  I’m 
after  feeling  a kind  of  fellow  above  in  the 
fur2y  ditch,  groaning  wicked  like  a maddening 
dog,  the  way  it’s  good  cause  you  have,  maybe, 
to  be  fearing  now. 

PEGEEN  — turning  on  him  sharply. — 
What’s  that?  Is  it  a man  you  seen ? 

SHAWN  — retreating. — I couldn’t  see  j 
him  at  all;  but  I heard  him  groaning  out,  and 
breaking  his  heart.  It  should  have  been  a 
young  man  from  his  words  speaking. 

PEGEEN  — going  after  him. — And  you 
never  went  near  to  see  was  he  hurted  or  what 
ailed  him  at  all? 

SHAWN.  I did  not,  Pegeen  Mike.  It  was 
a dark,  lonesome  place  to  be  hearing  the  like 
of  him. 

PE.GEEN.  Well,  you’re  a daring  fellow, 
and  :f  they  find  his  corpse  stretched  above  in 
the  ' ews  of  dawn,  what’ll  you  say  then  to  the 
Heelers,  or  the  Justice  of  the  Peace? 

? SHAWN  — thunderstruck. — I wasn't 

thinking  of  that.  For  the  love  of  God,  Pegeen 


14 


The  Playboy  of 


Mike,  don’t  let  on  I was  speaking  of  him. 
Don’t  tell  your  father  and  the  men  is  coming 
above;  for  if  they  heard  that  story,  they’d 
have  great  blabbing  this  night  at  the  wake. 

PEGEEN.  I’ll  maybe  tell  them,  and  I’ll 
maybe  not. 

SHAWN.  They  are  coming  at  the  door. 
Will  you  whisht.  I’m  saying? 

PEGEEN.  Whisht  yourself. 

[She  goes  behind  counter.  Michael 
James,  fat  jovial  publican,  comes  in  fol- 
lowed by  Philly  Cullen,  who  is  thin  and 
mistrusting,  and  Jimmy  Farrell,  who  is 
fat  and  amorous,  about  forty-five. 

MEN  — together. — God  bless  you.  The 
blessing  of  God  on  this  place. 

PEGEEN.  God  bless  you  kindly. 

MICHAEL  — to  men  who  go  to  the 
counter. — Sit  down  now,  and  take  your  rest. 
{Crosses  to  Shawn  at  the  fire.)  And  how  is 
it  you  are,  Shawn  Keogh?  Are  you  coming 
over  the  sands  to  Kate  Cassidy’s  wake? 

SHAWN.  I am  not,  Michael  James.  I’m 
going  home  the  short  cut  to  my  bed. 

PEGEEN  — speaking  across  the  counter.  - 
He’s  right  too,  and  have  you  no  shame 
Michael  James,  to  be  quitting  off  for  the  whol ) 


V 


THE  Western  World  15 

night,  and  leaving  myself  lonesome  in  the 
shop? 

MICHAEL  — good-humouredly. — Isn’t  it 
the  same  whether  I go  for  the  whole  night  or 
a part  only?  and  I’m  thinking  it’s  a queer 
daughter  you  are  if  you’d  have  me  crossing 
backward  through  the  Stooks  of  the  Dead 
Women,  with  a drop  taken. 

PEGEEN.  If  I am  a queer  daughter,  it’s 
a queer  father’d  be  leaving  me  lonesome  these 
twelve  hours  of  dark,  and  I piling  the  turf 
with  the  dogs  barking,  and  the  calves  mooing, 
and  my  own  teeth  rattling  with  the  fear. 

JIMMY  — flatteringly. — What  is  there  to 
hurt  you,  and  you  a fine,  hardy  girl  would 
knock  the  head  of  any  two  men  in  the  place  ? 

PEGEEN  — working  herself  up. — Isn’t 
there  the  harvest  boys  with  their  tongues  red 
for  drink,  and  the  ten  tinkers  is  camped  in  the 
east  glen,  and  the  thousand  militia  — bad  cess 
to  them ! — walking  idle  through  the  land. 
There’s  lots  surely  to  hurt  me,  and  I won’t 
stop  alone  in  it,  let  himself  do  what  he  will. 

MICHAEL.  If  you’re  that  afeard,  let 
Shawn  Keogh  stop  along  with  you.  It’s  the 
will  of  God,  I’m  thinking,  himself  should  be 
seeing  to  you  now. 


[They  all  turn  on  Shawn. 


i6 


The  Playboy  of 


SHAWN  — in  horrified  confusion. — I 

’would  and  welcome,  Michael  James,  but  I’m 
afeard  of  Father  Reilly ; and  what  at  all  would 
the  Holy  Father  and  the  Cardinals  of  Rome  be 
saying  if  they  heard  I did  the  like  of  that? 

MICHAEL  — with  contempt. — God  help 
you!  Can’t  you  sit  in  by  the  hearth  with  the 
light  lit  and  herself  beyond  in  the  room? 
You’ll  do  that  surely,  for  I’ve  heard  tell  there’s 
a queer  fellow  above,  going  mad  or  getting 
his  death,  maybe,  in  the  gripe  of  the  ditch,  so 
she’d  be  safer  this  night  with  a person  here. 

SHAWN  — with  plaintive  despair. — I’m 
afeard  of  Father  Reilly,  I’m  saying.  Let  you 
not  be  tempting  me,  and  we  near  married  itself. 

PHILLY  — with  cold  contempt. — Lock 
him  in  the  west  room.  He’ll  stay  then  and 
have  no  sin  to  be  telling  to  the  priest. 

MICHAEL  — to  Shawn,  getting  between 
him  and  the  door. — Go  up  now. 

SHAWN  — at  the  top  of  his  voice. — 
Don’t  stop  me,  Michael  James.  Let  me  out  of 
the  door,  I’m  saying,  for  the  love  of  the  Al- 
mighty God.  Let  me  out  {trying  to  dodge 
past  him).  Let  me  out  of  it,  and  may  God 
grant  you  His  indulgence  in  the  hour  of  need. 

MICHAEL  — loudly. — Stop  your  noising, 
and  sit  down  by  the  hearth. 


THE  Western  World  17 

]_Gives  him  a push  and  goes  to  counter 
laughing. 

SHAWN  — turning  back,  wringing  his 
hands. — Oh,  Father  Reilly  and  the  saints  of 
God,  where  will  I hide  myself  to-day?  Oh, 
St.  Joseph  and  St.  Patrick  and  St.  Brigid,  and 
St.  James,  have  mercy  on  me  now! 

{^Shawn  turns  round,  sees  door  clear,  and 
makes  a rush  for  it. 

MICHAEL  — catching  him  by  the  coat- 
tail.— You’d  be  going,  is  it? 

SHAWN  — screaming. — Leave  me  go, 
Michael  James,  leave  me  go,  you  old  Pagan, 
leave  me  go,  or  I’ll  get  the  curse  of  the  priests 
on  you,  and  of  the  scarlet-coated  bishops  of 
the  courts  of  Rome. 

{With  a sudden  movement  he  pulls  him- 
self out  of  his  coat,  and  disappears  out 
of  the  door,  leaving  his  coat  in 
Michael’s  hands. 

MICHAEL  — turning  round,  and  holding 
up  coat. — Well,  there’s  the  coat  of  a Christian 
man.  Oh,  there’s  sainted  glory  this  day  in  the 
lonesome  west ; and  by  the  will  of  God  I’ve  got 
you  a decent  man,  Pegeen,  you’ll  have  no  call 
to  be  spying  after  if  you’ve  a score  of  young 
girls,  maybe,  weeding  in  your  fields. 

PEGEEN  — taking  up  the  defence  of  her 


I 


1 8 The  Playboy  of 

property. — What  right  have  you  to  be  making 
game  of  a poor  fellow  for  minding  the  priest, 
when  it’s  your  own  the  fault  is,  not  paying  a 
penny  pot-boy  to  stand  along  with  me  and 
give  me  courage  in  the  doing  of  my  work? 

[She  snaps  the  coat  away  from  him,  and 
goes  behind  counter  with  it. 

MICHAEL  — taken  aback. — Where  would 
I get  a pot-boy?  Would  you  have  me  send 
the  bell-man  screaming  in  the  streets  of  Castle- 
bar? 

SHAWN  — opening  the  door  a chink  and 
putting  in  his  head,  in  a small  voice. — Michael 
James! 

MICHAEL  — imitating  him. — What  ails 
you? 

SHAWN.  The  queer  dying  fellow’s  be- 
yond looking  over  the  ditch.  He’s  come  up. 
I’m  thinking,  stealing  your  hens.  {Looks  over 
his  shoulder.)  God  help  me,  he’s  following 
me  now  {he  runs  into  room),  and  if  he’s 
heard  what  I said,  he’ll  be  having  my  life,  and 
I going  home  lonesome  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night. 

[For  a perceptible  moment  they  watch  the 
door  with  curiosity.  Some  one  coughs 
outside.  Then  Christy  Mahon,  a slight 
young  man,  comes  in  very  tired  and 
frightened  and  dirty. 


THE  Western  World  19 

CHRISTY  — in  a small  voice. — God  save 
all  here! 

MEN.  God  save  you  kindly. 

CHRISTY  — going  to  the  counter. — I’d 
trouble  you  for  a glass  of  porter,  woman  of 
the  house. 

[He  puts  down  coin. 

PEGEEN  — serving  him. — You’re  one  of 
the  tinkers,  young  fellow,  is  beyond  camped  in 
the  glen? 

CHRISTY.  I am  not;  but  I’m  destroyed 
walking. 

MICHAEL — patronizingly. — Let  you  come 
up  then  to  the  fire.  You’re  looking  famished 
with  the  cold. 

CHRISTY.  God  reward  you.  (He  takes 
up  his  glass  and  goes  a little  way  across  to  the 
left,  then  stops  and  looks  about  him.)  Is  it 
often  the  police  do  be  coming  into  this  place, 
master  of  the  house? 

MICHAEL.  If  you’d  come  in  better 
hours,  you’d  have  seen  “ Licensed  for  the  sale 
of  Beer  and  Spirits,  to  be  consumed  on  the 
premises,”  written  in  white  letters  above  the 
door,  and  what  would  the  polis  want  spying 
on  me,  and  not  a decent  house  within  four 
miles,  the  way  every  living  Christian  is  a bona 
fide,  saving  one  widow  alone? 

a 

1 


20  The  Playboy  of 

CHRISTY  — with  relief. — It’s  a safe 
house,  so. 

[He  goes  over  to  the  fire,  sighing  and 
moaning.  Then  he  sits  down,  putting 
his  glass  beside  him  and  begins  gnaw- 
ing a turnip,  too  miserable  to  feel  the 
others  staring  at  him  with  curiosity. 

MICHAEL  — going  after  him. — Is  it 
yourself  is  fearing  the  polis?  You’re  wanting, 
maybe  ? 

CHRISTY.  There’s  many  wanting. 

MICHAEL.  Many  surely,  with  the  broken 
harvest  and  the  ended  wars.  (He  picks  up 
some  stockings,  etc.,  that  are  near  the  fire,  and 
carries  them  away  furtively.)  It  should  be 
larceny,  I’m  thinking? 

CHRISTY  — dolefully. — I had  it  in  my 
mind  it  was  a different  word  and  a bigger. 

PEGEEN.  There’s  a queer  lad.  Were 
you  never  slapped  in  school,  young  fellow,  that 
you  don’t  know  the  name  of  your  deed  ? 

CHRISTY  — bashfully. — I’m  slow  at 

learning,  a middling  scholar  only. 

MICHAEL.  If  you’re  a dunce  itself, 
you’d  have  a right  to  know  that  larceny’s  rob- 
bing and  stealing.  Is  it  for  the  like  of  that 
you’re  wanting? 


THE  Western  World 


21 


CHRISTY  — with  a flash  of  family 
pride. — And  I the  son  of  a strong  farmer 
{with  a sudden  qualm),  God  rest  his  soul, 
could  have  bought  up  the  whole  of  your  old 
house  a while  since,  from  the  butt  of  his  tail- 
pocket,  and  not  have  missed  the  weight  of  it 
gone. 

MICHAEL  — impressed. — If  it’s  not  steal- 
ing, it’s  maybe  something  big. 

CHRISTY  — flattered. — Aye;  it’s  maybe 
something  big. 

JIMMY.  He’s  a wicked-looking  young 
fellow.  Maybe  he  followed  after  a young 
woman  on  a lonesome  night. 

CHRISTY  — shocked. — Oh,  the  saints 
forbid,  mister;  I was  all  times  a decent  lad. 

PHILLY  — turning  on  Jimmy.' — You’re  a 
silly  man,  Jimmy  Farrell.  He  said  his  father 
was  a farmer  a while  since,  and  there’s  him- 
self now  in  a poor  state.  Maybe  the  land  was 
grabbed  from  him,  and  he  did  what  any  decent 
man  would  do. 

MICHAEL  — to  Christy,  mysteriously. — 
Was  it  bailiffs  ? 

CHRISTY.  The  divil  a one. 

MICHAEL.  Agents? 

CHRISTY.  The  divil  a one. 

MICHAEL.  Landlords? 


22 


The  Playboy  of 


\ CHRISTY  — peevishly. — Ah,  not  at  all, 

, I’m  saying.  You’d  see  the  like  of  them  stories 
^on  any  little  paper  of  a Munster  town.  But 
il’m  not  calling  to  mind  any  person,  gentle, 
\simple,  judge  or  jury,  did  the  like  of  me. 

[They  all  draw  nearer  with  delighted 
curiosity. 

PHILLY.  Well,  that  lad’s  a puzzle-the- 
world. 

JIMMY.  He’d  beat  Dan  Davies’  circus,  or 
the  holy  missioners  making  sermons  on  the 
villainy  of  man.  Try  him  again,  Philly. 

PHILLY.  Did  you  strike  golden  guineas 
out  of  solder,  young  fellow,  or  shilling  coins 
itself  ? 

CHRISTY.  I did  not,  mister,  not  six- 
pence nor  a farthing  coin. 

JIMMY.  Did  you  marry  three  wives  may- 
be? I’m  told  there’s  a sprinkling  have  done 
that  among  the  holy  Luthers  of  the  preaching 
north. 

CHRISTY  — shyly. — I never  married 
with  one,  let  alone  with  a couple  or  three. 

PHILLY.  Maybe  he  went  fighting  for  the 
Boers,  the  like  of  the  man  beyond,  was  judged 
to  be  hanged,  quartered  and  drawn.  Were 
you  off  east,  young  fellow,  fighting 


THE  Western  World 


23 

wars  for  Kruger  and  the  freedom  of  the 
Boers  ? 

CHRISTY.  I never  left  my  own  parish 
till  Tuesday  was  a week. 

PEGEEN  — coming  from  counter, — He’s 
done  nothing,  so.  {To  Christy.)  If  you  didn’t 
commit  murder  or  a bad,  nasty  thing,  or  false 
coining,  or  robbery,  or  butchery,  or  the  like 
of  them,  there  isn’t  anything  that  would  be 
worth  your  troubling  for  to  run  from  now. 
You  did  nothing  at  all.  I 

CHRISTY  — his  feelings  hurt. — That’s  ; 
an  unkindly  thing  to  be  saying  to  a poorj 
orphaned  traveller,  has  a prison  behind  him,| 
and  hanging  before,  and  hell’s  gap  gaping/ 
below. 

PEGEEN  — with  a sign  to  the  men  to  be 
quiet. — You’re  only  saying  it.  You  did 
nothing  at  all.  A soft  lad  the  like  of  you 
wouldn’t  slit  the  windpipe  of  a screeching  sow. 

CHRISTY — offended. — You’re  not  speak- 
ing the  truth. 

PEGEEN  — in  mock  rage. — Not  speaking 
the  truth,  is  it?  Would  you  have  me  knock 
the  head  of  you  with  the  butt  of  the  broom? 

CHRISTY  — twisting  round  on  her  with 
a sharp  cry  of  horror. — Don’t  strike  me.  I 


The  Playboy  of 


killed  my  poor  father,  Tuesday  was  a week, 
for  doing  the  like  of  that. 

PEGEEN  — with  blank  amazement. — Is  it 
killed  your  father? 

CHRISTY  — subsiding. — With  the  help 
of  God  I did  surely,  and  that  the  Holy  Immac- 
ulate Mother  may  intercede  for  his  soul. 

PHILLY  — retreating  with  Jimmy. — 

/^^There’s  a daring  fellow. 

JIMMY.  Oh,  glory  be  to  God! 

MICHAEL  — with  great  respect. — That 
, mister  honey.  You 


CHRISTY  — in  a very  reasonable  tone. — 
He  was  a dirty  man,  God  forgive  him,  and  he 
getting  old  and  crusty,  the  way  I couldn’t  put 
up  with  him  at  all. 

PEGEEN.  And  you  shot  him  dead  ? 
^“^^CHRISTY  — shaking  his  head. — I never 
/used  weapons.  I’ve  no  license,  and  I’m  a law- 
y^^ring  man. 

MICHAEL.  It  was  with  a hiked  knife 
maybe?  I’m  told,  in  the  big  world  it’s  bloody 
knives  they  use. 

CHRISTY  — loudly,  scandalized.  — Do 
you  take  me  for  a slaughter-boy? 

PEGEEN.  You  never  hanged  him,  th‘ 


reason  for  doing  the 


THE  Western  World 


25 


way  Jimmy  Farrell  hanged  his  dog  from  the 
license,  and  had  it  screeching  and  wriggling 
three  hours  at  the  butt  of  a string,  and  himself 
swearing  it  was  a dead  dog,  and  the  peelers 
swearing  it  had  life? 

CHRISTY.  I did  not  then.  I just  riz  the 
loy  and  let  fall  the  edge  of  it  on  the  ridge  of 
his  skull,  and  he  went  down  at  my  feet  like 
an  empty  sack,  and  never  let  a grunt  or  groan 
from  him  at  all. 

MICHAEL  — making  a sign  to  Pegeen  to 
fill  Christy’s  glass. — And  what  way  weren’t 
you  hanged,  mister?  Did  you  bury  him  then? 

CHRISTY  — considering. — Aye.  I buried 
him  then.  Wasn’t  I digging  spuds  in  the  field? 

MICHAEL.  And  the  peelers  never  fol- 
lowed after  you  the  eleven  days  that  you’re 
out? 

CHRISTY  — shaking  his  head. — Never  a 
one  of  them,  and  I walking  forward  facing 
hog,  dog,  or  divil  on  the  highway  of  the  road. 

PHILLY  — nodding  wisely. — It’s  only 
with  a common  week-day  kind  of  a murderer 
them  lads  would  be  trusting  their  carcase,  and 
bat  man  should  be  a great  terror  when  hisj 
emper’s  roused. 

MICHAEL.  He  should  then.  (To 


26 


The  Playboy  of 


Christy.)  And  where  was  it,  mister  honey, 
that  you  did  the  deed? 

CHRISTY  looking  at  him  with  suspi- 
cion.— Oh,  a distant  place,  master  of  the 
house,  a windy  corner  of  high,  distant  hills. 

PHILLY  — nodding  with  approval. — 

He’s  a close  man,  and  he’s  right,  surely. 

PEGEEN.  That’d  be  a lad  with  the  sense 
of  Solomon  to  have  for  a pot-boy,  Michael 
James,  if  it’s  the  truth  you’re  seeking  one  at  all. 

PHILLY.  The  peelers  is  fearing  him,  and 
if  you’d  t^at  lad  in  the  house  there  isn’t  one 
>.^f  them  would  come  smelling  around  if  the 
dogs  itself  were  lapping  poteen  from  the  dung- 
pit  of  the  yard. 

JIMMY.  Bravery’s  a treasure  in  a lone- 
some place,  and  a lad  would  kill  his  father, 
^ I’m  thinking,  would  face  a foxy  divil  with  a 
pitchpike  on  the  flags  of  hell. 

PEGEEN.  It’s  the  truth  they’re  saying, 
, Suid  if  I’d  that  lad  in  the  house,  I wouldn’t  be 
fearing  the  loosed  kharki  cut-throats,  or  the 
walking  dead. 

CHRISTY  — swelling  with  surprise  and 
triumph. — Well,  glory  be  to  God! 

MICHAEL  — with  deference.  — Would 
you  think  well  to  stop  here  and  be  pot-boy, 
^ mister  honey,  if  we  gave  you  good  wages,  ant 


THE  Western  World 


27 


didn’t  destroy  you  with  the  weight  of  work? 

SHAWN  — coming  forward  uneasily. — 
That’d  be  a queer  kind  to  bring  into  a decent 
quiet  household  with  the  like  of  Pegeen  Mike. 

PEGEEN  — very  sharply. — Will  you 

whisht?  Who’s  speaking  to  you? 

SHAWN  — retreating. — A bloody-handed 
murderer  the  like  of  , . . 

PEGEEN  — snapping  at  him. — Whisht  I 
am  saying;  we’ll  take  no  fooling  from  your 
like  at  all.  (To  Christy  with  a honeyed  voice.) 
And  you,  young  fellow,  you’d  have  ,a  right  to 
stop,  I’m  thinking,  for  we’d  do  our  all  and 
utmost  to  content  your  needs. 

CHRISTY  — overcome  with  wonder. — 
And  I’d  be  safe  in  this  place  from  the  search- 
ing law? 

MICHAEL.  You  would,  surely.  If 
they’re  not  fearing  you,  itself,  the  peelers  in 
this  place  is  decent  droughty  poor  fellows, 
wouldn’t  touch  a cur  dog  and  not  give  warn- 
ing in  the  dead  of  night. 

PEGEEN  — very  kindly  and  persuasive- 
ly.— Let  you  stop  a short  while  anyhow. 
Aren’t  you  destroyed  walking  with  your  feet 
in  bleeding  blisters,  and  your  whole  skin  need- 
ing washing  like  a Wicklow  sheep. 

CHRISTY  — looking  round  with  satisfac- 


28 


The  Playboy  of 


tion. — It’s  a nice  room,  and  if  it’s  not  hum- 
bugging me  you  are,  I’m  thinking  that  I’ll 
surely  stay. 

JIMMY  — jumps  up. — Now,  by  the  grace 
of  God,  herself  will  be  safe  this  night,  with 
• a man  killed  his  father  holding  danger  from 
the  door,  and  let  you  come  on,  Michael  James, 
or  they’ll  have  the  best  stuff  drunk  at  the  wake. 

MICHAEL  — going  to  the  door  with  men. 
And  begging  your  pardon,  mister,  what  name 
will  we  call  you,  for  we’d  like  to  know? 

CHRISTY.  Christopher  Mahon. 

MICHAEL.  Well,  God  bless  you,  Christy, 
and  a good  rest  till  we  meet  again  when  the 
sun’ll  be  rising  to  the  noon  of  day. 

CHRISTY.  God  bless  you  all. 

MEN.  God  bless  you. 

[They  go  out  except  Shawn,  who  lingers 
at  door. 

SHAWN  — to  Pegeen. — Are  you  wanting 
me  to  stop  along  with  you  and  keep  you  from 
harm? 

PEGEEN  — gruffly. — Didn’t  you  say  you 
were  fearing  Father  Reilly? 

SHAWN.  There’d  be  no  harm  staying 
now,  I’m  thinking,  and  himself  in  it  too. 

PEGEEN.  You  wouldn’t  stay  when  there 


THE  Western  World  29 

was  need  for  you,  and  let  you  step  off  nimble 
this  time  when  there’s  none. 

SHAWN.  Didn’t  I say  it  was  Father 
Reilly  ... 

PEGEEN.  Go  on,  then,  to  Father  Reilly 
(in  a jeering  tone),  and  let  him  put  you  in  the 
holy  brotherhoods,  and  leave  that  lad  to  me. 

SHAWN.  If  I meet  the  Widow  Quin  . . . 

PEGEEN.  Go  on,  I’m  saying,  and  don’t 
be  waking  this  place  with  your  noise.  (She 
hustles  him  out  and  bolts  the  door.)  That  lad 
would  wear  the  spirits  from  the  saints  of 
peace.  (Bustles  about,  then  takes  off  her 
apron  and  pins  it  up  in  the  window  as  a blind. 
Christy  watching  her  timidly.  Then  she 
comes  to  him  and  speaks  with  bland  good- 
humour.  ) Let  you  stretch  out  now  by  the  fire, 
young  fellow.  You  should  be  destroyed 
travelling. 

CHRISTY  — shyly  again,  drawing  off  his 
boots.)  I’m  tired,  surely,  walking  wild  eleven 
days,  and  waking  fearful  in  the  night. 

\He  holds  up  one  of  his  feet,  feeling  his 
blisters,  and  looking  at  them  with  com- 
passion. 

PEGEEN  — standing  beside  him,  watching 
him  with  delight. — You  should  have  had  great 
people  in  your  family,  I’m  thinking,  with  the 


30 


The  Playboy  of 


little,  small  feet  you  have,  and  you  with  a kind 
of  a quality  name,  the  like  of  what  you’d  find 
on  the  great  powers  and  potentates  of  France 
and  Spain. 

^ CHRISTY  — with  pride. — We  were  great 
I surely,  with  wide  and  windy  acres  of  rich 
I Munster  land. 

PEGEEN.  Wasn’t  I telling  you,  and  you 
r'  a fine,  handsome  young  fellow  with  a noble 
brow? 

CHRISTY  — with  a flash  of  delighted  sur- 
prise.— Is  it  me? 

PEGEEN.  Aye.  Did  you  never  hear  that 
from  the  young  girls  where  you  come  from  in 
the  west  or  south? 

CHRISTY  — with  venom. — I did  not 
then.  Oh,  they’re  bloody  liars  in  the  naked 
parish  where  I grew  a man. 

PEGEEN.  If  they  are  itself,  you’ve  heard 
it  these  days,  I’m  thinking,  and  you  walking 
the  world  telling  out  your  story  to  young  girls 
or  old. 

CHRISTY.  I’ve  told  my  story  no  place 
till  this  night,  Pegeen  Mike,  and  it’s  foolish 
I was  here,  maybe,  to  be  talking  free,  but 
you’re  decent  people,  I’m  thinking,  and  your- 
self a kindly  woman,  the  way  I wasn’t  fearing 
you  at  all. 


THE  Western  World 


31 


PEGEEN  — filling  a sack  with  straw. — 
You’ve  said  the  like  of  that,  maybe,  in  every 
cot  and  cabin  where  you’ve  met  a young  girl 
on  your  way. 

CHRISTY  — going  over  to  her,  gradually 
raising  his  voice. — I’ve  said  it  nowhere  till 
this  night,  I’m  telling  you,  for  I’ve  seen  none 
the  like  of  you  the  eleven  long  days  I am 
walking  the  world,  looking  over  a low  ditch 
or  a high  ditch  on  my  north  or  my  south,  into 
stony  scattered  fields,  or  scribes  of  bog,  where 
you’d  see  young,  limber  girls,  and  fine  pranc- 
ing women  making  laughter  with  the  men. 

PEGEEN.  If  you  weren’t  destroyed  trav-f 
elling,  you’d  have  as  much  talk  and  streeleenJ 
I’m  thinking,  as  Owen  Roe  O’Sullivan  or  the 
poets  of  the  Dingle  Bay,  and  I’ve  heard  all 
times  it’s  the  poets  are  your  like,  fine  fiery  fel-j 
lows  with  great  rages  when  their  temper’;^ 
roused. 

CHRISTY  — drawing  a little  nearer  to 
her. — You’ve  a power  of  rings,  God  bless  you, 
and  would  there  be  any  offence  if  I was  asking 
are  you  single  now? 

PEGEEN.  What  would  I want  wedding 
so  young? 

CHRISTY  — with  relief. — We’re  alike,  so. 

PEGEEN  — she  puts  sack  on  settle  and 


32 


The  Playboy  of 


heats  it  up. — I never  killed  my  father.  I’d  be 
afeard  to  do  that,  except  I was  the  like  of 
yourself  with  blind  rages  tearing  me  within, 
for  I’m  thinking  you  should  have  had  great 
tussling  when  the  end  was  come. 

CHRISTY  — expanding  with  delight  at 
the  first  confidential  talk  he  has  ever  had  with 
a woman. — We  had  not  then.  It  was  a hard 
woman  was  come  over  the  hill,  and  if  he  was 
always  a crusty  kind  when  he’d  a hard  woman 
setting  him  on,  not  the  divil  himself  or  his 
four  fathers  could  put  up  with  him  at  all. 

PEGEEN — with  curiosity. — And  isn’t  it 
'k  great  wonder  that  one  wasn’t  fearing  you? 

CHRISTY  — very  confidentially. — Up  to 
the  day  I killed  my  father,  there  wasn’t  a per- 
son in  Ireland  knew  the  kind  I was,  and  I 
there  drinking,  waking,  eating,  sleeping,  a 
quiet,  simple  poor  fellow  with  no  man  giving 
me  heed. 

PEGEEN  — getting  a quilt  out  of  the  cup- 
board and  putting  it  on  the  sack. — It  was  the 
girls  were  giving  you  heed  maybe,  and  I’m 
thinking  it’s  most  conceit  you’d  have  to  be 
gaming  with  their  like. 

CHRISTY  — shaking  his  head,  with  sim- 
plicity.— Not  the  girls  itself,  and  I won’t  tell 
you  a lie.  There  wasn’t  anyone  heeding'  me 


THE  Western  World 


33 

in  that  place  saving  only  the  dumb  beasts  of 
the  field. 

[He  sits  down  at  fire. 

PEGEEN  — with  disappointment. — And  I 
thinking  you  should  have  been  living  the  like 
of  a king  of  Norway  or  the  Eastern  world. 

comes  and  sits  beside  him  after 
placing  bread  and  mug  of  milk  on  the 
table. 

CHRISTY — laughing  piteously. — The  like 
of  a king,  is  it?  And  I after  toiling,  moil- 
ing, digging,  dodging  from  the  dawn  till  dusk 
with  never  a sight  of  joy  or  sport  saving  only 
when  I’d  be  abroad  in  the  dark  night  poaching 
rabbits  on  hills,  for  I was  a devil  to  poach,  God 
forgive  me,  {very  naively)  and  I near  got  six 
months  for  going  with  a dung  fork  and  stab- 
bing a fish. 

PEGEEN.  And  it’s  that  you’d  call  sport, 
is  it,  to  be  abroad  in  the  darkness  with  yourself 
alone  ? 

CHRISTY.  I did,  God  help  me,  and  there 
I’d  be  as  happy  as  the  sunshine  of  St.  Martin’s 
Day,  watching  the  light  passing  the  north  or 
the  patches  of  fog,  till  I’d  hear  a rabbit  starting 
to  screech  and  I’d  go  running  in  the  furze. 
Then  when  I’d  my  full  share  I’d  come  walking 
^own  where  you’d  see  the  ducks  and  geese 


( 


34 


The  Playboy  of 


stretched  sleeping  on  the  highway  of  the  road, 
and  before  I’d  pass  the  dunghill,  I’d  hear  him- 
self snoring  out,  a loud  lonesome  snore  he’d 
be  making  all  times,  the  while  he  was  sleeping, 
and  he  a man ’d  be  raging  all  times,  the  while 
he  was  waking,  like  a gaudy  officer  you’d  hear 
cursing  and  damning  and  swearing  oaths. 

PEGEEN.  Providence  and  Mercy,  spare 
us  all  ! 

CHRISTY.  It’s  that  you’d  say  surely  if 
you  seen  him  and  he  after  drinking  for  weeks, 
rising  up  in  the  red  dawn,  or  before  it  maybe, 
and  going  out  into  the  yard  as  naked  as  an  ash 
tree  in  the  moon  of  May,  and  shying  clods 
against  the  visage  of  the  stars  till  he’d  put  the 
fear  of  death  into  the  banbhs  and  the  screech- 
ing sows. 

PEGEEN.  I’d  be  well-nigh  afeard  of  that 
lad  myself.  I’m  thinking.  And  there  was  no 
one  in  it  but  the  two  of  you  alone  ? 

CHRISTY.  The  divil  a one,  though  he’d 
sons  and  daughters  walking  all  great  states 
and  territories  of  the  world,  and  not  a one  of 
them,  to  this  day,  but  would  say  their  seven 
curses  on  him,  and  they  rousing  up  to  let  a 
cough  or  sneeze,  maybe,  in  the  deadness  of  the 
night.  * 

PEGEEN  — nodding  her  head. — Well,  yoii 


THE  Western  World  35 

should  have  been  a queer  lot.  I never  cursed 
my  father  the  like  of  that,  though  I’m  twenty 
and  more  years  of  age. 

CHRISTY.  Then  you’d  have  cursed  mine,  | 

I’m  telling  you,  and  he  a man  never  gave  peace  j 
to  any,  saving  when  he’d  get  two  months  or  j 
three,  or  be  locked  in  the  asylums  for  battering  i 
peelers  or  assaulting  men  (with  depression)  ■ 
the  way  it  was  a bitter  life  he  led  me  till  I did 
up  a Tuesday  and  halve  his  skull._  c. 

PEGEEN  — putting  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der.— Well,  you’ll  have  peace  in  this  place, 
Christy  Mahon,  and  none  to  trouble  you,  and 
it’s  near  time  a fine  lad  like  you  should  have 
your  good  share  of  the  earth. 

CHRISTY.  It's  time  surely,  and  I a seem- 
ly  fellow  with  great  strength  in  me  and 
bravery  of  . . . 

[Someone  knocks. 

CHRISTY  — clinging  to  Pegeen. — Oh, 
glory  ! it’s  late  for  knocking,  and  this  last  while 
I’m  in  terror  of  the  peelers,  and  the  walking 
dead. 

[Knocking  again. 

PEGEEN.  Who’s  there  ? 

VOICE  — outside. — Me. 

PEGEEN.  Who’s  me  ? 

VOICE.  The  Widow  Quin. 


36  The  Playboy  of 

PEGEEN  — jumping  up  and  giving  him 
the  bread  and  milk. — Go  on  now  with  your 
supper,  and  let  on  to  be  sleepy,  for  if  she  found 
you  were  such  a warrant  to  talk,  she’d  be 
stringing  gabble  till  the  dawn  of  day.  {He 
takes  bread  and  sits  shyly  with  his  back  to  the 
door.) 

PEGEEN  — opening  door,  with  temper. — 
What  ails  you,  or  what  is  it  you’re  wanting  at 
this  hour  of  the  night? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — coming  in  a step  and 
peering  at  Christy. — I’m  after  meeting  Shawn 
Keogh  and  Father  Reilly  below,  who  told  me 
of  your  curiosity  man,  and  they  fearing  by 
this  time  he  was  maybe  roaring,  romping  on 
your  hands  with  drink. 

PEGEEN  — pointing  to  Christy. — Look 
now  is  he  roaring,  and  he  stretched  away 
drowsy  with  his  supper  and  his  mug  of  milk. 
Walk  down  and  tell  that  to  Father  Reilly  and 
to  Shaneen  Keogh. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — coming  forward. — I’ll 
not  see  them  again,  for  I’ve  their  word  to  lead 
that  lad  forward  for  to  lodge  with  me. 

PEGEEN  — in  blank  amazement. — This 
night,  is  it? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — going  over. — This 

night.  “ It  isn’t  fitting,”  says  the  priesteen, 


THE  Western  World  37 

“ to  have  his  likeness  lodging  with  an  or- 
phaned girl.”  {To  Christy.)  God  save  you, 
mister ! 

CHRISTY  — shyly. — God  save  you  kind- 

ly- 

WIDOW  QUIN  — looking  at  him  with 
half-amazed  curiosity. — Well,  aren’t  you  a 
little  smiling  fellow?  It  should  have  becn\ 
great  and  bitter  torments  did  rouse  your  spirits  \ 
to  a deed  of  blood. 

CHRISTY  — doubtfully. — It  should,  may- 
be. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  It’s  more  than  “may- 
be ” I’m  saying,  and  it’d  soften  my  heart  to 
see  you  sitting  so  simple  with  your  cup  and 
cake,  and  you  fitter  to  be  saying  your  catechism 
than  slaying  your  da. 

PEGEEN  — at  counter,  washing  glasses. — 
There’s  talking  when  any’d  see  he’s  fit  to  be 
holding  his  head  high  with  the  wonders  of  the 
world.  Walk  on  from  this,  for  I’ll  not  have 
him  tormented  and  he  destroyed  travelling 
since  Tuesday  was  a week. 

WIDOW  QUm  — peaceably.— wen  be 
walking  surely  when  his  supper’s  done,  and 
you’ll  find  we’re  great  company,  young  fellow, 
when  it’s  of  the  like  of  you  and  me  you’d  hear 
the  penny  poets  singing  in  an  August  Fair. 


38  The  Playboy  of 


A, 

! 

I 


CHRISTY  — innocently. — Did  you  kill 
your  father? 

PEGEEN  — contemptuously. — She  did 
not.  She  hit  himself  with  a worn  pick,  and 
the  rusted  poison  did  corrode  his  blood  the 
way  he  never  overed  it,  and  died  after.  That 
was  a sneaky  kind  of  murder  did  win  small 
glory  with  the  boys  itself. 

{She  crosses  to  Christy’s  left. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — with  good-humour. — 
If  it  didn’t,  maybe  all  knows  a widow  woman 
has  buried  her  children  and  destroyed  her  man 
is  a wiser  comrade  for  a young  lad  than  a girl, 
the  like  of  you,  who’d  go  helter-skeltering 
after  any  man  would  let  you  a wink  upon  the 
road. 

PEGEEN  — breaking  out  into  wild  rage. — 
And  you’ll  say  that.  Widow  Quin,  and  you 
gasping  with  the  rage  you  had  racing  the  hill 
beyond  to  look  on  his  face. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — laughing  derisively. — 
Me,  is  it?  Well,  Father  Reilly  has  cuteness 
to  divide  you  now.  {She  pulls  Christy  up.) 
There’s  great  temptation  in  a man  did  slay  his 
da,  and  we’d  best  be  going,  young  fellow;  so 
rise  up  and  come  with  me. 

PEGEEN  — seising  his  arm. — He’ll  not 
Stir,  He’s  pot-boy  in  this  place,  and  I’ll  not 


THE  Western  World  39 

have  him  stolen  ofif  and  kidnabbed  while  him- 
self’s  abroad. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  It’d  be  a crazy  pot-boy’d 
lodge  him  in  the  shebeen  where  he  works  by 
day,  so  you’d  have  a right  to  come  on,  young 
fellow,  till  you  see  my  little  houseen,  a perch 
off  on  the  rising  hill. 

PEGEEN.  Wait  till  morning,  Christy 
Mahon.  Wait  till  you  lay  eyes  on  her  leaky 
thatch  is  growing  more  pasture  for  her  buck 
goat  than  her  square  of  fields,  and  she  without 
a tramp  itself  to  keep  in  order  her  place  at  all. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  When  you  see  me  con- 
triving in  my  little  gardens,  Christy  Mahon, 
you’ll  swear  the  Lord  God  formed  me  to  be 
living  lone,  and  that  there  isn’t  my  match  in 
Mayo  for  thatching,  or  mowing,  or  shearing 
a sheep. 

PEGEEN  — with  noisy  scorn. — It’s  true 
the  Lord  God  formed  you  to  contrive  indeed. 
Doesn’t  the  world  know  you  reared  a black 
lamb  at  your  own  breast,  so  that  the  Lord 
Bishop  of  Connaught  felt  the  elements  of  a 
Christian,  and  he  eating  it  after  in  a kidney 
stew?  Doesn’t  the  world  know  you’ve  been 
seen  shaving  the  foxy  skipper  from  France 
for  a threepennjr  bit  and  a sop  of  grass  to- 


40 


The  Playboy  of 


bacco  would  wring  the  liver  from  a mountain 
goat  you’d  meet  leaping  the  hills? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — with  amusement. — Do 
you  hear  her  now,  young  fellow?  Do  you 
hear  the  way  she’ll  be  rating  at  your  own  self 
when  a week  is  by? 

PEGEEN  — to  Christy. — Don’t  heed  her. 
Tell  her  to  go  into  her  pigsty  and  not  plague 
us  here. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  I’m  going;  but  he’ll 
come  with  me. 

PEGEEN  — shaking  him. — Are  you  dumb, 
young  fellow? 

CHRISTY  — timidly,  to  Widow  Quin. — 
God  increase  you;  but  I’m  pot-boy  in  this 
place,  and  it’s  here  I’d  liefer  stay. 

PEGEEN — triumphantly. — Now  you  have 
heard  him,  and  go  on  from  this. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — looking  round  the 
room. — It’s  lonesome  this  hour  crossing  the 
hill,  and  if  he  won’t  come  along  with  me,  I’d 
have  a right  maybe  to  stop  this  night  with 
yourselves.  Let  me  stretch  out  on  the  settle, 
Pegeen  Mike;  and  himself  can  lie  by  the 
hearth. 

PEGEEN  — short  and  fiercely. — Faith,  I 
won’t.  Quit  off  or  I will  send  you  now. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — gathering  her  shawl  up. 


THE  Western  World 


■ — ^Well,  it’s  a terror  to  be  aged  a score.  {To 
Christy.)  God  bless  you  now,  young  fellow, 
and  let  you  be  wary,  or  there’s  right  torment 
will  await  you  here  if  you  go  romancing  with 
her  like,  and  she  waiting  only,  as  they  bade 
me  say,  on  a sheepskin  parchment  to  be  wed 
with  Shawn  Keogh  of  Killakeen. 

CHRISTY  — going  to  Pegeen  as  she  bolts 
the  door. — What’s  that  she’s  after  saying? 

PEGEEN.  Lies  and  blather,  you’ve  no  call 
to  mind.  Well,  isn’t  Shawn  Keogh  an  impu- 
dent fellow  to  send  up  spying  on  me?  Wait 
till  I lay  hands  on  him.  Let  him  wait,  I’m 
saying. 

CHRISTY.  And  you’re  not  wedding  him 
at  all? 

PEGEEN.  I wouldn’t  wed  him  if  a bishop 
came  walking  for  to  join  us  here. 

CHRISTY.  That  God  in  glory  may  be 
thanked  for  that. 

PEGEEN.  There’s  your  bed  now.  I’ve 
put  a quilt  upon  you  I’m  after  quilting  a while 
since  with  my  own  two  hands,  and  you’d  best 
stretch  out  now  for  your  sleep,  ind  may  God 
give  you  a good  rest  till  I call  you  in  the  morn- 
ing when  the  cocks  will  crow. 

CHRISTY  — as  she  goes  to  inner  room. — 
May  God  and  Mary  and  St.  Patrick  bless  you 


The  Playboy  of 


42 

and  reward  you,  for  your  kindly  talk.  {She 
shuts  the  door  behind  her.  He  settles  his  bed 
slowly,  feeling  the  quilt  with  immense  satis- 
faction.— Well,  it’s  a clean  bed  and  soft  with 
it,  and  it’s  great  luck  and  company  I’ve  won 
me  in  the  end  of  time  — two  fine  women 
/fighting  for  the  likes  of  me  — till  I’m  thinking 
( this  night  wasn’t  I a foolish  fellow  not  to  kill 
■ my  father  in  the  years  gone  by. 


CURTAIN 


THE  Western  World 


43 


ACT  II. 

Scene,  as  before.  Brilliant  morning  light. 
Christy,  looking  bright  and  cheerful,  is  clean- 
ing a girl’s  boots. 

CHRISTY  — to  himself,  counting  jugs  on 
dresser. — Half  a hundred  beyond.  Ten 
there.  A score  that’s  above.  Eighty  jugs.  Six 
cups  and  a broken  one.  Two  plates.  A power 
of  glasses.  Bottles,  a school-master ’d  be  hard 
set  to  count,  and  enough  in  them,  I’m  thinking, 
to  drunken  all  the  wealth  and  wisdom  of  the 
County  Clare.  {He  puts  down  the  boot  care- 
fully.) There’s  her  boots  now,  nice  and  de- 
cent for  her  evening  use,  and  isn’t  it  grand 
brushes  she  has?  {He  puts  them  down  and 
goes  by  degrees  to  the  looking-glass.)  Well, 
this’d  be  a fine  place  to  be  my  whole  life  talk- 
ing out  with  swearing  Christians,  in  place  of 
my  old  dogs  and  cat,  and  I stalking  around, 
smoking  my  pipe  and  drinking  my  fill,  and 
never  a day’s  work  but  drawing  a cork  an  odd 
time,  or  wiping  a glass,  or  rinsing  out  a shiny 
tumbler  for  a decent  man.  {He  takes  the 
looking-glass  from  the  wall  and  puts  it  on  the 
back  of  a chair;  then  sits  down  in  front  of  it 
and  begins  washing  his  face.)  Didn’t  I know 


44 


The  Playboy  of 


^^^^ightly  I was  handsome,  though  it  was  the 
divil’s  own  mirror  we  had  beyond,  would  twist 
a squint  across  an  angel’s  brow;  and  I’ll  be 
growing  fine  from  this  day,  the  way  I’ll  have 
a soft  lovely  skin  on  me  and  won’t  be  the  like 
of  the  clumsy  young  fellows  do  be  ploughing 
all  times  in  the  earth  and  dung.  (He  starts.) 
Is  she  coming  again?  (He  looks  out.) 
Stranger  girls.  God  help  me,  where’ll  I hide 
myself  away  and  my  long  neck  naked  to  the 
world?  (He  looks  out.)  I’d  best  go  to  the 
room  maybe  till  I’m  dressed  again. 

[He  gathers  up  his  coat  and  the  looking- 
glass,  and  runs  into  the  inner  room. 
The  door  is  pushed  open,  and  Susan 
Brady  looks  in,  and  knocks  on  door. 

SUSAN.  There’s  nobody  in  it. 

[Knocks  again. 

NELLY  — pushing  her  in  and  following 
her,  with  Honor  Blake  and  Sara  Tansey. — 
It’d  be  early  for  them  both  to  be  out  walking 
the  hill. 


SUSAN.  I’m  thinking  Shawn  Keogh  was 
making  game  of  us  and  there’s  no  such  man  in 
it  at  all. 

HONOR  — pointing  to  straw  and  quilt. — 
Look  at  that.  He’s  been  sleeping  there  in  the 
night.  Well,  it’ll  be  a hard  case  if  he’s  gone 


THE  Western  World 


45 


off  now,  the  way  we’ll  never  set  our  eyes  on  a 
man  killed  his  father,  and  we  after  rising  early 
and  destroying  ourselves  running  fast  on  the 
hill. 

NELLY.  Are  you  thinking  them’s  his 
boots  ? 

SARA  — taking  them  up. — If  they  are, 
there  should  be  his  father’s  track  on  them.  Did 
you  never  read  in  the  papers  the  way  murdered 
men  do  bleed  and  drip? 

SUSAN.  Is  that  blood  there,  Sara 
Tansey  ? 

SARAH  — smelling  it. — That’s  bog  water, 
I’m  thinking,  but  it’s  his  own  they  are  surely, 
for  I never  seen  the  like  of  them  for  whity 
mud,  and  red  mud,  and  turf  on  them,  and  the 
fine  sands  of  the  sea.  That  man’s  been  walk- 
ing, I’m  telling  you. 

[She  goes  down  right,  putting  on  one  of 
his  boots. 

SUSAN  — going  to  window. — Maybe  he’s 
stolen  off  to  Belmullet  with  the  boots  of 
Michael  James,  and  you’d  have  a right  so  to 
follow  after  him,  Sara  Tansey,  and  you  the 
one  yoked  the  ass  cart  and  drove  ten  miles  to 
set  your  eyes  on  the  man  bit  the  yellow  lady’s 
nostril  on  the  northern  shore. 

[She  looks  out. 


46 


The  Playboy  of 


SARA  — running  to  window  with  one 
boot  on. — Don’t  be  talking,  and  we  fooled 
to-day.  {Putting  on  other  boot.)  There’s  a 
pair  do  fit  me  well,  and  I’ll  be  keeping  them 
for  walking  to  the  priest,  when  you’d  be 
ashamed  this  place,  going  up  winter  and  sum- 
mer with  nothing  worth  while  to  confess  at  all. 

HONOR  — who  has  been  listening  at  the 
door. — Whisht ! there’s  someone  inside  the 
room.  {She  pushes  door  a chink  open.)  It’s 
a man. 

[i'oro  kicks  off  boots  and  puts  them  where 
they  were.  They  all  stand  in  a line 
looking  through  chink. 

SARA.  I’ll  call  him.  Mister!  Mister! 
{He  puts  in  his  head.)  Is  Pegeen  within? 

CHRISTY  — coming  in  as  meek  as  a 
mouse,  with  the  looking-glass  held  behind  his 
back. — She’s  above  on  the  cnuceen,  seeking 
the  nanny  goats,  the  way  she’d  have  a sup  of 
goat’s  milk  for  to  colour  my  tea. 

SARA.  And  asking  your  pardon,  is  it 
you’s  the  man  killed  his  father? 

CHRISTY  — sidling  toward  the  nail  where 
the  glass  was  hanging. — I am,  God  help  me ! 

SARA  — taking  eggs  she  has  brought. — 
Then  my  thousand  welcomes  to  you,  and  I’ve 
run  up  with  a brace  of  duck’s  eggs  for  your 


THE  Western  World 


47 


food  today.  Pegeen’s  ducks  is  no  use,  but 
these  are  the  real  rich  sort.  Hold  out  your 
hand  and  you’ll  see  it’s  no  lie  I’m  telling  you. 

CHRISTY  — coming  forward  shyly,  and 
holding  out  his  left  hand. — They’re  a great 
and  weighty  size. 

SUSAN.  And  I run  up  with  a pat  of 
butter,  for  it’d  be  a poor  thing  to  have  you 
eating  your  spuds  dry,  and  you  after  running 
a great  way  since  you  did  destroy  your  da. 

CHRISTY.  Thank  you  kindly. 

HONOR.  And  I brought  you  a little  cut 
of  cake,  for  you  should  have  a thin  stomach 
on  you,  and  you  that  length  walking  the  world. 

NELLY.  And  I brought  you  a little  laying 
pullet  — boiled  and  all  she  is  — was  crushed 
at  the  fall  of  night  by  the  curate’s  car.  Feel 
the  fat  of  that  breast.  Mister. 

CHRISTY.  It’s  bursting,  surely. 

[He  feels  it  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
in  which  he  holds  the  presents. 

SARA.  Will  you  pinch  it?  Is  your  right 
hand  too  sacred  for  to  use  at  all?  (She  slips 
round  behind  him.)  It’s  a glass  he  has.  Well, 
I never  seen  to  this  day  a man  with  a looking- 
' glass  held  to  his  back.  Them  that  kills  their 
fathers  is  a vain  lot  surely. 


[Girls  giggle. 


48 


The  Playboy  of 


CHRISTY  — smiling  innocently  and  piling 
presents  on  glass. — I’m  very  thankful  to  you 
all  to-day  . . . 

WIDOW  QUIN  — coming  m quickly,  at 
door. — Sara  Tansey,  Susan  Brady,  Honor 
Blake!  What  in  glory  has  you  here  at  this 
hour  of  day? 

GIRLS  — giggling. — That’s  the  man  killed 
his  father. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — coming  to  them. — I 
! know  well  it’s  the  man;  and  I’m  after  putting 
I him  down  in  the  sports  below  for  racing,  leap- 
\ ing,  pitching,  and  the  Lord  knows  what. 

SARA  — exuberantly. — That’s  right.  Wi- 
dow Quin.  I’ll  bet  my  dowry  that  he’ll  lick  the 
world. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  If  you  will,  you’d  have 
a right  to  have  him  fresh  and  nourished  in 
place  of  nursing  a feast.  (Taking  presents.) 
Are  you  fasting  or  fed,  young  fellow? 

CHRISTY.  Fasting,  if  you  please. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — /0MJ/3;.— Well,  you’re 
the  lot.  Stir  up  now  and  give  him  his  break- 
fast. (To  Christy.)  Come  here  to  me  (she 
puts  him  on  bench  beside  her  while  the  girls 
make  tea  and  get  his  breakfast)  and  let  you 
tell  us  your  story  before  Pegeen  will  come, 


THE  Western  World  49 

in  place  of  grinning  your  ears  off  like  the  moon 
of  May. 

CHRISTY  — beginning  to  be  pleased. — 
It’s  a long  story ; you’d  be  destroyed  listening. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Don’t  be  letting  on  to 
be  shy,  a fine,  gamey,  treacherous  lad  the  like 
of  you.  Was  it  in  your  house  beyond  you 
cracked  his  skull? 

CHRISTY  — shy  but  flattered. — It  was 
not.  We  were  digging  spuds  in  his  cold,  slop- 
ing, stony,  divil’s  patch  of  a field. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  And  you  went  asking 
money  of  him,  or  making  talk  of  getting  a 
wife  would  drive  him  from  his  farm? 

CHRISTY.  I did  not,  then;  but  there  I 
v/as,  digging  and  digging,  and  “ You  squint- 
ing idiot,”  says  he,  “ let  you  walk  down  now 
and  tell  the  priest  you’ll  wed  the  Widow  Casey 
in  a score  of  days.” 

WIDOW  QUIN.  And  what  kind  was 
she? 

CHRISTY  — with  horror. — A walking 
terror  from  beyond  the  hills,  and  she  two 
score  and  five  years,  and  two  hundredweights 
and  five  pounds  in  the  weighing  scales,  with  a 
limping  leg  on  her,  and  a blinded  eye,  and  she 
a woman  of  noted  misbehaviour  with  the  old 
and  young. 


50 


The  Playboy  of 


GIRLS  — clustering  round  him,  serving 
him. — Glory  be. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  And  what  did  he  want 
driving  you  to  wed  with  her? 

[She  takes  a bit  of  the  chicken. 

CHRISTY  — eating  with  growing  satisfac- 
tion.— He  was  letting  on  I was  wanting  a pro- 
tector from  the  harshness  of  the  world,  and 
he  without  a thought  the  whole  while  but  how 
he’d  have  her  hut  to  live  in  and  her  gold  to 
drink. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  There’s  maybe  worse 
than  a dry  hearth  and  a widow  woman  and 
your  glass  at  night.  So  you  hit  him  then? 

CHRISTY  — getting  almost  excited. — I 
did  not.  “ I won’t  wed  her,”  says  I,  “ when 
all  know  she  did  suckle  me  for  six  weeks  when 
I came  into  the  world,  and  she  a hag  this  day 
with  a tongue  on  her  has  the  crows  and  sea- 
birds scattered,  the  way  they  wouldn’t  cast  a 
shadow  on  her  garden  with  the  dread  of  her 
curse.” 

WIDOW  QUIN  — teasingly. — That  one 
should  be  right  company. 

SARA  — eagerly. — Don’t  mind  her.  Did 
you  kill  him  then? 

CHRISTY.  “ She’s  too  good  for  the  like 
of  you,”  says  he,  “ and  go  on  now  or  I’ll 


THE  Western  World 


51 


flatten  you  out  like  a crawling  beast  has  passed 
under  a dray.”  “ You  will  not  if  I can  help 
it,”  says  I.  “ Go  on,”  says  he,  “ or  I’ll  have 
the  divil  making  garters  of  your  limbs  to- 
night.” “ You  will  not  if  I can  help  it,”  says 
I.  {He  sits  up,  brandishing  his  mug. 

SARA.  You  were  right  surely. 

CHRISTY  — impressively. — With  that  the 
sun  came  out  between  the  cloud  and  the  hill, 
and  it  shining  green  in  my  face.  “God  have 
mercy  on  your  soul,”  says  he,  lifting  a scythe; 
“ or  on  your  own,”  says  I,  raising  the  loy. 

SUSAN.  That’s  a grand  story. 

HONOR.  He  tells  it  lovely. 

CHRISTY  — flattered  and  confident,  wav- 
ing bone. — He  gave  a drive  with  the  scythe, 
and  I gave  a lep  to  the  east.  Then  I turned 
I around  with  my  back  to  the  north,  and  I hit 
j a blow  on  the  ridge  of  his  skull,  laid  him 
\ stretched  out,  and  he  split  to  the  knob  of  his 

V gullet. 

^He  raises  the  chicken  bone  to  his  Adam’s 
c<'"  apple. 

j GIRLS  — together. — Well,  you’re  a mar- 
j vel!  Oh,  God  bless  you!  You’re  the  lad 
surely ! 

SUSAN.  I’m  thinking  the  Lord  God  sent 
him  this  road  to  make  a second  husband  to 


52 


The  Playboy  of 


the  Widow  Quin,  and  she  with  a great  yearn- 
ing to  be  wedded,  though  all  dread  her  here. 
Lift  him  on  her  knee,  Sara  Tansey. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Don’t  tease  him. 

SARA  — going  over  to  dresser  and  counter 
very  quickly,  and  getting  two  glasses  and 
porter. — You’re  heroes  surely,  and  let  you 
drink  a supeen  with  your  arms  linked  like  the 
outlandish  lovers  in  the  sailor’s  song.  {She 
links  their  arms  and  gives  them  the  glasses.) 
There  now.  Drink  a health  to  the  wonders  of 
the  western  world,  the  pirates,  preachers, 
poteen-makers,  with  the  jobbing  jockies; 
parching  peelers,  and  the  juries  fill  their 
stomachs  selling  judgments  of  the  English 
law.  [Brandishing  the  bottle. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  That’s  a right  toast, 
Sara  Tansey.  Now  Christy. 

[They  drink  with  their  arms  linked,  he 
drinking  with  his  left  hand,  she  with 
her  right.  As  they  are  drinking, 
Pegeen  Mike  comes  in  with  a milk  can 
and  stands  aghast.  They  all  spring 
away  from  Christy.  He  goes  down 
left.  Widow  Quin  remains  seated. 

PEGEEN  — angrily,  to  Sara. — What  is  it 
you’re  wanting? 


THE  Western  World  53 

SARA  — twisting  her  apron. — An  ounce 
of  tobacco. 

PEGEEN.  Have  you  tuppence? 

SARA.  Pve  forgotten  my  purse. 

PEGEEN.  Then  you’d  best  be  getting  it 
and  not  fooling  us  here.  {To  the  Widow 
Quin,  with  more  elaborate  scorn.)  And  what 
is  it  you’re  wanting,  Widow  Quin? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — insolently. — A penn- 
’orth of  starch. 

PEGEEN  — breaking  out. — And  you  with- 
out a white  shift  or  a shirt  in  your  whole  fam- 
ily since  the  drying  of  the  flood.  I’ve  no 
starch  for  the  like  of  you,  and  let  you  walk 
on  now  to  Killamuck. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — turning  to  Christy,  as 
she  goes  out  with  the  girls. — Well,  you’re 
mighty  huffy  this  day,  Pegeen  Mike,  and,  you 
young  fellow,  let  you  not  forget  the  sports 
and  racing  when  the  noon  is  by. 

[They  go  out. 

PEGEEN  — imperiously. — Fling  out  that 
rubbish  and  put  them  cups  away.  (Christy 
tidies  away  in  great  haste).  Shove  in  the 
bench  by  the  wall.  (He  does  so.)  And  hang 
that  glass  on  the  nail.  What  disturbed  it  at 
all  ? 

CHRISTY  — very  meekly. — I was  making 


54 


The  Playboy  of 


myself  decent  only,  and  this  a fine  country  for 
young  lovely  girls. 

PEGEEN  — sharply. — Whisht  your  talk- 
ing of  girls. 

l^Goes  to  counter  — right. 

CHRISTY.  Wouldn’t  any  wish  to  be  de- 
cent in  a place  . . . 

PEGEEN.  Whisht  I’m  saying. 

CHRISTY  — looks  at  her  face  for  a mo- 
ment with  great  misgivings,  then  as  a last 
effort,  takes  up  a loy,  and  goes  towards  her, 
with  feigned  assurance). — It  was  with  a loy 
the  like  of  that  I killed  my  father. 

PEGEEN  — still  sharply. — You’ve  told  me 
that  story  six  times  since  the  dawn  of  day. 

CHRISTY  — reproachfully. — It’s  a queer 
thing  you  wouldn’t  care  to  be  hearing  it  and 
them  girls  after  walking  four  miles  to  be  listen- 
ing to  me  now. 

PEGEEN  — turning  round  astonished. — 
Four  miles. 

CHRISTY  — apologetically.—  Didn’t  him- 
self say  there  were  only  four  bona  fides  living 
in  the  place  ? 

PEGEEN.  It’s  bona  fides  by  the  road  they 
are,  but  that  lot  came  over  the  river  lepping  the 
stones.  It’s  not  three  perches  when  you  go  like 
that,  and  I was  down  this  morning  looking  on 


THE  Western  World 


55 


the  papers  the  post-boy  does  have  in  his  bag. 
(With  meaning  and  emphasis.)  For  there 
was  great  news  this  day,  Christopher  Mahon. 

[She  goes  into  room  left. 

CHRISTY  — suspiciously. — Is  it  news  of 
my  murder  ? 

PEGEEN  — inside. — Murder,  indeed. 

CHRISTY  — /oMJ/y.— A murdered  da  ? 

PEGEEN  — coming  in  again  and  crossing 
right. — There  was  not,  but  a story  filled  half 
a page  of  the  hanging  of  a man.  Ah,  that 
should  be  a fearful  end,  young  fellow,  and  it 
worst  of  all  for  a man  who  destroyed  his  da, 
for  the  like  of  him  would  get  small  mercies, 
and  when  it’s  dead  he  is,  they’d  put  him  in  a 
narrow  grave,  with  cheap  sacking  wrapping 
him  round,  and  pour  down  quicklime  on  his 
head,  the  way  you’d  see  a woman  pouring  any 
frish-frash  from  a cup. 

CHRISTY  — very  miserably. — Oh,  God 
help  me.  Are  you  thinking  I’m  safe  ? You 
were  saying  at  the  fall  of  night,  I was  shut  of 
jeopardy  and  I here  with  yourselves. 

PEGEEN  — severely. — You’ll  be  shut  of 
jeopardy  no  place  if  you  go  talking  with  a pack 
of  wild  girls  the  like  of  them  do  be  walking 
abroad  with  the  peelers,  talking  whispers  at  the 
fall  of  night. 


56 


The  Playboy  of 


CHRISTY  — with  terror. — And  you’re 
thinking  they’d  tell  ? 

PEGEEN  — with  mock  sympathy. — Who 
knows,  God  help  you. 

CHRISTY  — loudly. — What  joy  would 
they  have  to  bring  hanging  to  the  likes  of  me  ? 

PEGEEN.  It’s  queer  joys  they  have,  and 
who  knows  the  thing  they’d  do,  if  it’d  make 
the  green  stones  cry  itself  to  think  of  you  sway- 
ing and  s wiggling  at  the  butt  of  a rope,  and 
jyou  with  a fine,  stout  neck,  God  bless  you  ! the 
iway  you’d  be  a half  an  hour,  in  great  anguish, 
getting  your  death. 

CHRISTY  — getting  his  boots  and  putting 
them  on. — If  there’s  that  terror  of  them,  it’d 
be  best,  maybe,  I went  on  wandering  like  Esau 
or  Cain  and  Abel  on  the  sides  of  Neifin  or  the 
Erris  plain. 


PEGEEN  — beginning  to  play  with  him. — 
It  would,  maybe,  for  I’ve  heard  the  Circuit- 
Judges  this  place  is  a heartless  crew. 

CHRISTY  — bitterly. — It’s  more  than 
Judges  this  place  is  a heartless  crew.  {Looking 
up  at  her.)  And  isn’t  it  a poor  thing  to  be 
starting  again  and  I a lonesome  fellow  will  be 
looking  out  on  women  and  girls  the  way  the 
needy  fallen  spirits  do  be  looking  on  the  Lord  ? 

PEGEEN.  What  call  have  you  to  be  that 


THE  Western  World  57 


lonesome  when  there’s  poor  girls  walking 
Mayo  in  their  thousands  now  ? 

CHRISTY  — grimly. — It’s  well  you  know 
what  call  I have.  It’s  well  you  know  it’s  a 
lonesome  thing  to  be  passing  small  towns  with 
the  lights  shining  sideways  when  the  night  is 
down,  or  going  in  strange  places  with  a dog 
noising  before  you  and  a dog  noising  behind, 
or  drawn  to  the  cities  where  you’d  hear  a voice 
kissing  and  talking  deep  love  in  every  shadow 
of  the  ditch,  and  you  passing  on  with  an  empty, 
hungry  stomach  failing  from  your  heart. 

PEGEEN.  I’m  thinking  you’re  an  odd 
man,  Christy  Mahon.  The  oddest  walking 
fellow  I ever  set  my  eyes  on  to  this  hour  to-day. 

CHRISTY.  What  would  any  be  but  odd 
men  and  they  living  lonesome  in  the  world  ? 

PEGEEN.  I’m  not  odd,  and  I’m  my  whole 
life  with  my  father  only. 

CHRISTY  — with  infinite  admiration. — 
How  would  a lovely  handsome  woman  the  like 
of  you  be  lonesome  when  all  men  should  be 
thronging  around  to  hear  the  sweetness  of  your 
voice,  and  the  little  infant  children  should  be 
pestering  your  steps  I’m  thinking,  and  you 
walking  the  roads. 

PEGEEN.  I’m  hard  set  to  know  what  way 


> V 

SL 

/ 


J 

/ 


The  Playboy  of 


58 

a coaxing  fellow  the  like  of  yourself  should  be 
lonesome  either. 

CHRISTY.  Coaxing  ? 

PEGEEN.  Would  you  have  me  think  a 
man  never  talked  with  the  girls  would  have 
the  words  you’ve  spoken  to-day  ? It’s  only 
letting  on  you  are  to  be  lonesome,  the  way 
you’d  get  around  me  now. 

CHRISTY.  I wish  to  God  I was  letting 
on;  but  I was  lonesome  all  times,  and  born 
lonesome.  I’m  thinking,  as  the  moon  of  dawn. 

[Going  to  door. 

PEGEEN  — puzzled  by  his  talk. — Well, 
it’s  a story  I’m  not  understanding  at  all  why 
you’d  be  worse  than  another,  Christy  Mahon, 
and  you  a fine  lad  with  |he great  savagery^ 
destroy  vour  da. 

CHRISTY.  It’s  little  I’m  understanding 
myself,  saving  only  that  my  heart’s  scalded 
this  day,  and  I going  off  stretching  out  the 
earth  between  us,  the  way  I’ll  not  be  waking 
near  you  another  dawn  of  the  year  till  the  two 
of  us  do  arise  to  hope  or  judgment  with  the 
saints  of  God,  and  now  I’d  best  be  going  with 
my  wattle  in  my  hand,  for  hanging  is  a poor 
thing  {turning  to  go),  and  it’s  little  welcome 
only  is  left  me  in  this  house  to-day. 

PEGEEN  — sharply. — Christy ! {He  turns 


THE  Western  World 


59 


round.)  Come  here  to  me.  {He  goes  to- 
wards her. ) Lay  down  that  switch  and  throw 
some  sods  on  the  fire.  You’re  pot-boy  in  this 
place,  and  I’ll  not  have  you  mitch  off  from  us 
now. 

CHRISTY.  You  were  saying  I’d  be 
hanged  if  I stay. 

PEGEEN  — quite  kindly  at  last. — I’m 
after  going  down  and  reading  the  fearful 
crimes  of  Ireland  for  two  weeks  or  three,  and 
there  wasn’t  a word  of  your  murder.  {Getting 
up  and  going  over  to  the  counter.)  They’ve 
likely  not  found  the  body.  You’re  safe  so  with 
ourselves. 

CHRISTY  — astonished,  slowly. — It’s 
making  game  of  me  you  were  {following  her 
with  fearful  joy),  and  I can  stay  so,  working 
at  your  side,  and  I not  lonesome  from  this 
mortal  day. 

PEGEEN.  What’s  to  hinder  you  from 
staying,  except  the  widow  woman  or  the  young 
girls  would  inveigle  you  off? 

CHRISTY  — with  rapture. — And  I’ll  have 
your  words  from  this  day  filling  my  ears,  and 
that  look  is  come  upon  you  meeting  my  two 
eyes,  and  I watching  you  loafing  around  in  the 
warm  sun,  or  rinsing  your  ankles  when  the 
night  is  come. 


6o 


The  Playboy  of 


PEGEEN  — kindly,  but  a little  embar- 
rassed.— Pm  thinking  you’ll  be  a loyal  young 
lad  to  have  working  around,  and  if  you  vexed 
me  a while  since  with  your  leaguing  with  the 
girls,  I wouldn’t  give  a thraneen  for  a lad 
hadn’t  a mighty  spirit  in  him  and  a gamey 
heart. 

\_Shawn  Keogh  runs  in  carrying  a cleeve 
on  his  back,  followed  by  the  Widow 
Quin. 

r SHAWN  — to  Pegeen. — I was  passing  be- 
low, and  I seen  your  mountainy  sheep  eating 
cabbages  in  Jimmy’s  field.  Run  up  or  they’ll 
be  bursting  surely. 

PEGEEN.  Oh,  God  mend  them ! 

\_She  puts  a shawl  over  her  head  and  runs 
out. 

CHRISTY  — looking  from  one  to  the 
other.  Still  in  high  spirits. — I’d  best  go  to 
her  aid  maybe.  I’m  handy  with  ewes. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — closing  the  door. — She 
can  do  that  much,  and  there  is  Shaneen  has 
long  speeches  for  to  tell  you  now. 

{She  sits  down  with  an  amused  smile. 

SHAWN  — taking  something  from  his 
pocket  and  offering  it  to  Christy. — Do  you  see 
that,  mister? 

CHRISTY  — looking  at  it. — The  half  of 
a ticket  to  the  Western  States! 


THE  Western  World  6i 

SHAWN  — trembling  with  anxiety. — I’ll 
give  it  to  you  and  my  new  hat  {pulling  it  out 
of  hamper)  ; and  my  breeches  with  the  double 
seat  {pulling  it  off) ; and  my  new  coat  is 
woven  from  the  blackest  shearings  for  three 
miles  around  {giving  him  the  coat) ; I’ll  give 
you  the  whole  of  them,  and  my  blessing,  and 
the  blessing  of  Father  Reilly  itself,  maybe,  if 
you’ll  quit  from  this  and  leave  us  in  the  peace 
we  had  till  last  night  at  the  fall  of  dark. 

CHRISTY  — with  a new  arrogance. — 
And  for  what  is  it  you’re  wanting  to  get  shut 
of  me? 

SHAWN  — looking  to  the  Widow  for  help. 
— I’m  a poor  scholar  with  middling  faculties 
to  coin  a lie,  so  I’ll  tell  you  the  truth,  Christy 
Mahon.  I’m  wedding  with  Pegeen  beyond, 
and  I don’t  think  well  of  having  a clever  fear- 
less man  the  like  of  you  dwelling  in  her  house. 

CHRISTY  — almost  pugnaciously. — And 
you’d  be  using  bribery  for  to  banish  me  ? 

SHAWN  — in  an  imploring  voice. — Let 
you  not  take  it  badly,  mister  honey,  isn’t 
beyond  the  best  place  for  you  where  you’ll 
have  golden  chains  and  shiny  coats  and  you 
riding  upon  hunters  with  the  ladies  of  the  land. 

[He  makes  an  eager  sign  to  the  Widow 
Quin  to  come  to  help  him. 


62 


The  Playboy  of 


WIDOW  QUIN  — coming  over. — It’s 
true  for  him,  and  you’d  best  quit  off  and  not 
have  that  poor  girl  setting  her  mind  on  you, 
for  there’s  Shaneen  thinks  she  wouldn’t  suit 
you  though  all  is  saying  that  she’ll  wed  you 
now.  [Christy  beams  with  delight. 

SHAWN  — in  terrified  earnest. — She 

wouldn’t  suit  you,  and  she  with  the  divil’s 
own  temper  the  way  you’d  be  strangling  one 
another  in  a score  of  days.  {He  makes  the 
movement  of  strangling  with  his  hands.)  It’s 
the  like  of  me  only  that  she’s  fit  for,  a quiet 
simple  fellow  wouldn’t  raise  a hand  upon  her 
if  she  scratched  itself. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — putting  Shawn’s  hat  on 
Christy. — Fit  them  clothes  on  you  anyhow, 
young  fellow,  and  he’d  maybe  loan  them  to 
you  for  the  sports.  {Pushing  him  towards 
inner  door.)  Fit  them  on  and  you  can  give 
your  answer  when  you  have  them  tried. 

CHRIS.TY  — beaming,  delighted  with  the 
clothes. — I will  then.  I’d  like  herself  to  see 
me  in  them  tweeds  and  hat. 

[He  goes  into  room  and  shuts  the  door. 

SHAWN  — in  great  anxiety. — He’d  like 
herself  to  see  them.  He’ll  not  leave  us.  Widow 
Quin.  He’s  a score  of  divils  in  him  the  way 
it’s  well  nigh  certain  he  will  wed  Pegeen. 


THE  Western  World 


63 

i WIDOW  QUIN  — jeeringly. — It’s  true  all  j 
girls  are  fond  of  courage  and  do  hate  the  like  | 
of  you. 

SHAWN  — walking  about  in  desperation, 

— Oh,  Widow  Quin,  what’ll  I be  doing  now? 

I’d  inform  again  him,  but  he’d  burst  from 
Kilmainham  and  he’d  be  sure  and  certain  to 
destroy  me.  If  I wasn’t  so  God-fearing,  I’d 
near  have  courage  to  come  behind  him  and 
run  a pike  into  his  side.  Oh,  it’s  a hard  case 
to  be  an  orphan  and  not  to  have  your  father 
that  you’re  used  to,  and  you’d  easy  kill  and 
make  yourself  a hero  in  the  sight  of  all. 
(^Coming  up  to  her.)  Oh,  Widow  Quin,  will 
you  find  me  some  contrivance  when  I’ve  prom- 
ised you  a ewe? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  A ewe’s  a small  thing, 
but  what  would  you  give  me  if  I did  wed  him 
and  did  save  you  so? 

SHAWN  — with  astonishment. — You? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Aye.  Would  you  give  ^ 
me  the  red  cow  you  have  and  the  mountainy  \ 
ram,  and  the  right  of  way  across  your  rye  1 
path,  and  a load  of  dung  at  Michaelmas,  and  / 
turbary  upon  the  western  hill? 

SHAWN  — radiant  with  hope. — I would 
surely,  and  I’d  give  you  the  wedding-ring  I 
have,  and  the  loan  of  a new  suit,  the  way  you’d 


The  Playboy  of 


64 

have  him  decent  on  the  wedding-day.  I’d 
give  you  two  kids  for  your  dinner,  and  a gallon 
of  poteen,  and  I’d  call  the  piper  on  the  long 
car  to  your  wedding  from  Crossmolina  or 
from  Ballina.  I’d  give  you  . . . 

WIDOW  QUIN.  That’ll  do  so,  and  let 
you  whisht,  for  he’s  coming  now  again. 

[Christy  comes  in  very  natty  in  the  new 
clothes.  Widow  Quin  goes  to  him  ad- 
miringly. 

I WIDOW  QUIN.  If  you  seen  yourself 
now,  I’m  thinking  you’d  be  too  proud  to  speak 
to  us  at  all,  and  it’d  be  a pity  surely  to  have 
I your  like  sailing  from  Mayo  to- the.  Western 
yWorld.,- 

CHRISTY  — as  proud  as  a peacock. — I’m 
not  going.  If  this  is  a poor  place  itself.  I’ll 
make  myself  contented  to  be  lodging  here. 

[Widow  Quin  makes  a sign  to  Shawn  to 
leave  them. 

SHAWN.  Well,  I’m  going  measuring  the 
race-course  while  the  tide  is  low,  so  I’ll  leave 
you  the  garments  and  my  blessing  for  the 
sports  to-day.  God  bless  you! 

[He  wriggles  out. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — admiring  Christy. — 
Well,  you’re  mighty  spruce,  young  fellow.  Sit 


THE  Western  World 


65 


down  now  while  you’re  quiet  till  you  talk  with 
me. 

CHRISTY  — swaggering.  — I’m  g o i n g 
abroad  on  the  hillside  for  to  seek  Pegeen. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  You’ll  have  time  and 
plenty  for  to  seek  Pegeen,  and  you  heard  me 
saying  at  the  fall  of  night  the  two  of  us  should 
be  great  company. 

CHRISTY.  From  this  out  I’ll  have  no 
want  of  company  when  all  sorts  is  bringing  : 
me  their  food  and  clothing  (he  swaggers  to  the  : 
door,  tightening  his  belt),  the  way  they’d  set  , 
their  eyes  upon  a gallant  orphan  cleft  his 
father  with  one  blow  to  the  breeches  belt.  (He  . 
opens  door,  then  staggers  hack.)  Saints  of 
glory ! Holy  angels  from  the  throne  of  light ! 

WIDOW  QUIN  — going  over.  — What 
ails  you? 


CHRISTY.  It’s  the  walking  spirit  of  my 


murdered  da? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — looking  out.  — Is  it 
that  tramper? 

CHRISTY  — wildly.  — Where’ll  I hide  my 
poor  body  from  that  ghost  of  hell  ? 

[The  door  is  pushed  open,  and  old  Mahon 
appears  on  threshold.  Christy  darts  in 
behind  door. 


66 


The  Playboy  of 


WIDOW  QUIN  — in  great  amusement. — 
Cod  save  you,  my  poor  man. 

MAHON  — gruffly. — Did  you  see  a young 
lad  passing  this  way  in  the  early  morning  or 
the  fall  of  night? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  You’re  a queer  kind  to 
walk  in  not  saluting  at  all. 

MAHON.  Did  you  see  the  young  lad? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — stiffly.— What  kind 
was  he? 

MAHON.  An  ugly  young  streeler  with  a 
murderous  gob  on  him,  and  a little  switch  in 
his  hand.  I met  a tramper  seen  him  coming 
this  way  at  the  fall  of  night. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  There’s  harvest  hun- 
'•dreds  do  be  passing  these  days  for  the  Sligo 
boat.  For  what  is  it  you’re  wanting  him,  my 
poor  man? 

MAHON.  I want  to  destroy  him  for 
breaking  the  head  on  me  with  the  clout  of  a 
loy.  X^e  takes  off  a big  hat,  and  shows  his 
head  in  a mass  of  bandages  and  plaster,  with 
some  pride.)  It  was  he  did  that,  and  amn’t  I 
a great  wonder  to  think  I’ve  traced  him  ten 
days  with  that  rent  in  my  crown? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — taking  his  head  in  both 
hands  and  examining  it  with  extreme  delight. 


THE  Western  World  67 


— That  was  a great  blow.  And  who  hit  you  ? 
A robber  maybe? 


MAHON.  It  was  my  own  son  hit  me,  and 
he  the  divil  a robber,  or  anything  else,  but  a 
dirty,  stuttering  lout. 

WIDOW  — letting  go  his  skull  and  wiping 
her  hands  in  her  apron. — You’d  best  be  wary 
of  a mortified  scalp,  I think  they  call  it,  lepping 
around  with  that  wound  in  the  splendour  of 
the  sun.  It  was  a bad  blow  surely,  and  you 
should  have  vexed  him  fearful  to  make  him 
Strike  that  gash  in  his  da. 

MAHON.  Is  it  me? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — amusing  herself. — 
Aye.  And  isn’t  it  a great  shame  when  the  old 
and  hardened  do  torment  the  young? 

MAHON  — raging. — Torment  him  is  it? 
And  I after  holding  out  with  the  patience  of 
a martyred  saint  till  there’s  nothing  but  de- 
struction on,  and  I’m  driven  out  in  my  old 
age  with  none  to  aid  me. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — greatly  amused. — It’s 
a sacred  wonder  the  way  that  wickedness  will 
spoil  a man. 

MAHON.  My  wickedness,  is  it?  Amn’t 
I after  saying  it  is  himself  has  me  destroyed, 
and  he  a liar  on  walls,  a talker  of  folly,  a man 


68 


The  Playboy  of 


you’d  see  stretched  the  half  of  the  day  in  the 
brown  ferns  with  his  belly  to  the  sun. 
WIDOW  QUIN.  Not  working  at  all? 

MAHON.  The  divil  a work,  or  if  he  did 
itself,  you’d  see  him  raising  up  a haystack  like 
the  stalk  of  a rush,  or  driving  our  last  cow  till 
he  broke  her  leg  at  the  hip,  and  when  he  wasn’t 
at  that  he’d  be  fooling  over  little  birds  he 
had  — finches  and  felts  — or  making  mugs  at 
his  own  self  in  the  bit  of  a glass  we  had  hung 
on  the  wall. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — looking  at  Christy. — 
What  way  was  he  so  foolish?  It  was  run- 
ning wild  after  the  girls  may  be? 

' MAHON  — with  a shout  of  derision. — 
Running  wild,  is  it?  If  he  seen  a red  petticoat 
coming  swinging  over  the  hill,  he’d  be  off  to 
hide  in  the  sticks,  and  you’d  see  him  shooting 
out  his  sheep’s  eyes  between  the  little  twigs 
and  the  leaves,  and  his  two  ears  rising  like  a 
hare  looking  out  through  a gap.  Girls,  indeed ! 

WIDOW  QUIN.  It  was  drink  maybe? 

MAHON.  And  he  a poor  fellow  would 
get  drunk  on  the  smell  of  a pint.  He’d  a 
queer  rotten  stomach.  I’m  telling  you,  and 
when  I gave  him  three  pulls  from  my  pipe  a 
while  since,  he  was  taken  with  contortions  till 


THE  Western  World  69 

I had  to  send  him  in  the  ass  cart  to  the  females’ 
nurse. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — clasping  her  hands. — * 
Well,  I never  till  this  day  heard  tell  of  a man 
the  like  of  that! 

MAHON.  I’d  take  a mighty  oath  you 
didn’t  surely,  and  wasn’t  he  the  laughing  joke 
of  every  female  woman  where  four  baronies 
meet,  the  way  the  girls  would  stop  their  weed- 
ing if  they  seen  him  coming  the  road  to  let  a 
roar  at  him,  and  call  him  the  looney  of 
Mahon’s. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  I’d  give  the  world  and 
all  to  see  the  like  of  him.  What  kind  was  he? 

MAHON.  A email  low  fellow. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  And  dark? 

MAHON.  Dark  and  dirty. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — considering. — I’m 
thinking  I seen  him. 

MAHON  — eagerly. — An  ugly  young 

blackguard. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  A hideous,  fearful  vil- 
lain, and  the  spit  of  you. 

MAHON.  What  way  is  he  fled? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Gone  over  the  hills  to'^ 
catch  a coasting  steamer  to  the  north  or  south^ 

MAHON.  Could  I pull  up  on  him  now  ? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  If  you’ll  cross  the  sands 


70 


The  Playboy  of 


below  where  the  tide  is  out,  you’ll  be  in  it  as 
soon  as  himself,  for  he  had  to  go  round  ten 
miles  by  the  top  of  the  bay.  {She  points  to 
the  door).  Strike  down  by  the  head  beyond 
and  then  follow  on  the  roadway  to  the  nortn 
and  east.  [Mahon  goes  abruptly. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — shouting'  after  him. — 
Let  you  give  him  a good  vengeance  when  you 
come  up  with  him,  but  don’t  put  yourself  in 
the  power  of  the  law,  for  it’d  be  a poor  thing 
to  see  a judge  in  his  black  cap  reading  out  his 
sentence  on  a civil  warrior  the  like  of  you. 

[She  swings  the  door  to  and  looks  at 
Christy,  who  is  cowering  in  terror,  for 
a moment,  then  she  bursts  into  a laugh. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Well,  you’re  the  walk- 
ing Playboy  of  the  Western  World,  and  that’s 
the  poor  man  you  had  divided  to  his  breeches 
belt. 

I CHRISTY  — looking  out:  then,  to  her. — 
! What’ll  Pegeen  say  when  she  hears  that  story  ? 
I What’ll  she  be  saying  to  me  now? 
j WIDOW  QUIN.  She’ll  knock  the  head 
of  you,  I’m  thinking,  and  drive  you  from  the 
door.  God  help  her  to  be  taking  you  for  a 
Wonder,  and  you  a little  schemer  making  up 
the  story  you  destroyed  your  da. 

CHRISTY  — turning  to  the  door,  nearly 


THE  Western  World 


71 


speechless  with  rage,  half  to  himself. — To  be 
letting  on  he  was  dead,  and  coming  back  to 
his  life,  and  following  after  me  like  an  old 
weazel  tracing  a rat,  and  coming  in  here  laying 
'desolation  between  my  own  self  and  the  fine 
women  of  Ireland,  and  he  a kind  of  carcase 
that  you’d  fling  upon  the  sea.  . . 

V WIDOW  QUIN  — more  soberly. — There’s 
talking  for  a man’s  one  only  son. 

CHRISTY  — breaking  out. — His  one  son, 
is  it?  May  I meet  him  with  one  tooth  and  it 
aching,  and  one  eye  to  be  seeing  seven  and 
seventy  divils  in  the  twists  of  the  road,  and 
one  old  timber  leg  on  him  to  limp  into  the 
scalding  grave.  (^Looking  out.)  There  he  is'’ 
now  crossing  the  strands,  and  that  the  Lord 
God  would  send  a high  wave  to  wash  him  from  ^ 
the  world. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — scandalised .—  Have 
you  no  shame?  {putting  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  turning  him  round.)  What  ails 
you?  Near  crying,  is  it? 

CHRISTY  — in  despair  and  grief. — 
Amn’t  I after  seeing  the  love-light  of  the  star 
of  knowledge  shining  from  her  brow,  and 
hearing  words  would  put  you  thinking  on  the 
holy  Brigid  speaking  to  the  infant  saints,  and 
now  she’ll  be  turning  again,  and  speaking 


72 


The  Playboy  of 


hard  words  to  me,  like  an  old  woman  with  a 
spavindy  ass  she’d  have,  urging  on  a hill. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  There’s  poetry  talk  for 
a girl  you’d  see  itching  and  scratching,  and  she 
with  a stale  stink  of  poteen  on  her  from  selling 
in  the  shop. 

CHRISTY  — impatiently. — It’s  her  like  is 
fitted  to  be  handling  merchandise  in  the 
heavens  above,  and  what’ll  I be  doing  now,  I 
ask  you,  and  I a kind  of  wonder  was  jilted  by 
the  heavens  when  a da)”-  was  by. 

[There  is  a distant  noise  of  girls’  voices. 
Widow  Quin  looks  from  window  and 
comes  to  him,  hurriedly. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  You’ll  be  doing  like  my- 
/ self.  I’m  thinking,  when  I did  destroy  my  man, 
/ for  I’m  above  many’s  the  day,  odd  times  in 
1 great  spirits,  abroad  in  the  sunshine,  darning 
a stocking  or  stitching  a shift;  and  odd  times 
again  looking  out  on  the  schooners,  hookers, 
trawlers  is  sailing  the  sea,  and  I thinking  on 
\ the  gallant  hairy  fellows  are  drifting  beyond, 
\and  myself  long  years  living  alone. 

CHRISTY  — interested. — You’re  like  me, 
so. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  I am  your  like,  and  it’s 
for  that  I’m  taking  a fancy  to  you,  and  I with 
my  little  houseen  above  where  there’d  be  my- 


THE  Western  World 

self  to  tend  you,  and  none  to  ask  were  you  a 
murderer  or  what  at  all. 

CHRISTY.  And  what  would  I be  doing 
if  I left  Pegeen? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  I’ve  nice  jobs  you  could 
be  doing,  gathering  shells  to  make  a white- 
wash for  our  hut  within,  building  up  a little 
goose-house,  or  stretching  a new  skin  on  an 
old  curragh  I have,  and  if  my  hut  is  far  from 
all  sides,  it’s  there  you’ll  meet  the  wisest  old 
men,  I tell  you,  at  the  corner  of  my  wheel,  and 
it’s  there  yourself  and  me  will  have  great  times 
whispering  and  hugging.  . . . 

VOICES  — outside,  calling  far  away. — ^ 
Christy!  Christy  Mahon!  Christy! 

CHRISTY.  Is  it  Pegeen  Mike? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  It’s  the  young  girls,  I’m 
thinking,  coming  to  bring  you  to  the  sports 
below,  and  what  is  it  you’ll  have  me  to  tell 
them  now? 

CHRISTY.  Aid  me  for  to  win  Pegeen. 
It’s  herself  only  that  I’m  seeking  now.  (Widow 
Quin  gets  up  and  goes  to  window.)  Aid  me 
for  to  win  her,  and  I’ll  be  asking  God  to 
stretch  a hand  to  you  in  the  hour  of  death,  and 
lead  you  short  cuts  through  the  Meadows  of 
Ease,  and  up  the  floor  of  Heaven  to  the  Foot- 
stool of  the  Virgin’s  Son. 


The  Playboy  of 


WIDOW  QUIN.  There’s  praying. 

VOICES  — nearer. — Christy ! Christy  Ma- 
hon! 

CHRISTY  — with  agitation. — They’re 
coming.  Will  you  swear  to  aid  and  save  me 
for  the  love  of  Christ  ? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — looks  at  him  for  a 
oment. — If  I aid  you,  will  you  swear  to 
give  me  a right  of  way  I want,  and  a moun- 
tainy  ram,  and  a load  of  dung  at  Michaelmas, 
the  time  that  you’ll  be  master  here? 

CHRISTY.  I will,  by  the  elements  and 
stars  of  night. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Then  we’ll  not  say  a 
word  of  the  old  fellow,  the  way  Pegeen  won’t 
know  your  story  till  the  end  of  time. 

CHRISTY.  And  if  he  chances  to  return 
again  ? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  We’ll  swear  he’s  a 
maniac  and  not  your  da.  I could  take  an  oath 
I seen  him  raving  on  the  sands  to-day. 

[Girls  run  in. 

SUSAN.  Come  on  to  the  sports  below. 
Pegeen  says  you’re  to  come. 

SARA  TANSEY.  The  lepping’s  begin- 
ning, and  we’ve  a jockey’s  suit  to  fit  upon  you 
for  the  mule  race  on  the  sands  below. 

HONOR,  Come  on,  will  you? 


THE  Western  World 


75 


CHRISTY.  I will  then  if  Pegeen’s  beyond. 

SARA.  She’s  in  the  boreen  making  game 
of  Shaneen  Keogh. 

CHRISTY.  Then  I’ll  be  going  to  her  now. 

[He  runs  out  followed  by  the  girls,  j 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Well,  if  the  worst  comes 
in  the  end  of  all,  it’ll  be.  great.,  game  to  see, 
there’s  nojoeTo  pity  him  but  a widow  woman,' 
the  like  of  me,  has  buried  her  children  and  ^ 
destroyed  her  man.  [She  goes  out. 


CURTAIN 


76 


The  Playboy  of 


ACT  III. 

Scene,  as  before.  Later  in  the  day.  Jimmy 
comes  in,  slightly  drunk. 

JIMMY  — calls. — Pegeen!  {Crosses  to 
inner  door.)  Pegeen  Mike!  {Comes  back 
again  into  the  room.)  Pegeen!  {Philly  comes 
in  in  the  same  state.)  {To  Philly.)  Did  you 
see  herself? 

PHILLY.  I did  not;  but  I sent  Shawn 
Keogh  with  the  ass  cart  for  to  bear  him  home. 
{Trying  cupboards  which  are  locked.)  Well, 
isn’t  he  a nasty  man  to  get  into  such  staggers 
at  a morning  wake?  and  isn’t  herself  the  divil’s 
daughter  for  locking,  and  she  so  fussy  after 
that  young  gaffer,  you  might  take  your  death 
with  drought  and  none  to  heed  you? 

JIMMY.  It’s  little  wonder  she’d  be  fussy, 
and  he  after  bringing  bankrupt  ruin  on  the 
roulette  man,  and  the  trick-o’-the-loop  man, 
and  breaking  the  nose  of  the  cockshot-man, 
and  winning  all  in  the  sports  below,  racing, 
lepping,  dancing,  and  the  Lord  knows  what! 
He’s  right  luck.  I’m  telling  you. 

PHILLY.  If  he  has,  he’ll  be  rightly 
hobbled  yet,  and  he  not  able  to  say  ten  words 
without  making  a brag  of  the  way  he  killed 


THE  Western  World  77 

his  father,  and  the  great  blow  he  hit  with  the 
%■ 

JIMMY.  A man  can’t  Kang  by  his  own 
informing,  and  his  father  should  be  rotten  by 
now. 

{Old  Mahon  passes  window  slowly. 

PHILLY.  Supposing  a man’s  digging 
spuds  in  that  field  with  a long  spade,  and 
supposing  he  flings  up  the  two  halves  of  that 
skull,  what’ll  be  said  then  in  the  papers  anST 
the  courts  of  law? 

JIMMY.  They’d  say  it  was  an  old  Dane, 
maybe,  was  drowned  in  the  flood.  {Old  Mahon 
comes  in  and  sits  down  near  door  listening.') 
Did  you  never  hear  tell  of  the  skulls  they  have 
in  the  city  of  Dublin,  ranged  out  like  blue  jugs 
in  a cabin  of  Connaught? 

PHILLY.  And  you  believe  that  ? 

JIMMY  — pugnaciously. — Didn’t  a lad  see 
them  and  he  after  coming  from  harvesting  in 
the  Liverpool  boat  ? “ They  have  them  there,” 
says  he,  “ making  a show  of  the  great  people 
there  was  one  time  walking  the  world.  White 
skulls  and  black  skulls  and  yellow  skulls,  and 
some  with  full  teeth,  and  some  haven’t  only 
but  one.” 

PHILLY.  It  was  no  lie,  maybe,  for  when 
I was  a young  lad  there  was  a graveyard 


78  The  Playboy  of 

beyond  the  house  with  the  remnants  of  a man 
who  had  thighs  as  long  as  your  arm.  He  was 
a horrid  man,  I’m  telling  you,  and  there  was 
many  a fine  Sunday  I’d  put  him  together  for 
fun,  and  he  with  shiny  bones,  you  wouldn’t 
meet  the  like  of  these  days  in  the  cities  of  the 
world. 

MAHON  — getting  up. — You  wouldn’t  is 
it?  Lay  your  eyes  on  that  skull,  and  tell  me 
where  and  when  there  was  another  the  like  of 
it,  is  splintered  only  from  the  blow  of  a loy. 

PHILLY.  Glory  be  to  God!  And  who 
hit  you  at  all? 

MAHON  — triumphantly. — It  was  my 
own  son  hit  me.  Would  you  believe  that? 

JIMMY.  Well,  there’s  wonders  hidden  in 
the  heart  of  man ! 

PHILLY  — suspiciously. — And  what  way 
was  it  done? 

MAHON  — -wandering  about  the  room. — 
I’m  after  walking  hundreds  and  long  scores  of 
miles,  winning  clean  beds  and  the  fill  of  my 
belly  four  times  in  the  day,  and  I doing 
nothing  but  telling  stories  of  that  naked  truth. 
{He  comes  to  them  a little  aggressively.)  Give 
me  a supeen  and  I’ll  tell  you  now. 

[ Widow  Quin  comes  in  and  stands  aghast 
behind  him.  He  is  facing  Jimmy  and 
Philly,  who  are  on  the  left. 


THE  Western  World  79 

JIMMY.  Ask  herself  beyond.  She’s  the 
stuff  hidden  in  her  shawl. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — coming  to  Mahon 
quickly. — you  here,  is  it?  You  didn’t  go  far 
at  all? 

MAHON.  I seen  the  coasting  steamer 
passing,  and  I got  a drought  upon  me  and  a 
cramping  leg,  so  I said,  “ The  divil  go  along 
with  him,”  and  turned  again.  {Looking  under 
her  shawl.)  And  let  you  give  me  a supeen,  for 
I’m  destroyed  travelling  since  Tuesday  was  a 
week. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — getting  a glass,  in  a 
cajoling  tone. — Sit  down  then  by  the  fire  and 
take  your  ease  for  a space.  You’ve  a right  to 
be  destroyed  indeed,  with  your  walking,  and 
fighting,  and  facing  the  sun  (giving  him  poteen 
from  a stone  jar  she  has  brought  in.)  There 
now  is  a drink  for  you,  and  may  it  be  to  your 
happiness  and  length  of  life. 

MAHON  — taking  glass  greedily  and  sit- 
ting down  by  fire. — God  increase  you ! 

WIDOW  QUIN  — taking  men  to  the  right 
stealthily. — Do  you  know  what  ? That  man’s 
raving  from  his  wound  to-day,  for  I met  him 
a while  since  telling  a rambling  tale  of  a tinker 
had  him  destroyed.  Then  he  heard  of 
Christy’s  deed,  and  he  up  and  says  it  was  his 


8o 


The  Playboy  of 


son  had  cracked  his  skull.  O isn’t  madness 
a fright,  for  he'll  go  killing  someone  yet,  and 
he  thinking  it’s  the  man  has  struck  him  so  ? 

JIMMY  — entirely  convinced. — It’s  a 

fright,  surely.  I knew  a party  was  kicked  in 
the  head  by  a re3~mare,  and  he  went  killing 
horses  a great  while,  till  he  eat  the  insides  of 
a clock  and  died  after. 

PHILLY  — with  suspicion. — Did  he  see 
Christy  ? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  He  didn’t.  (With  a 
warning  gesture. ) Let  you  not  be  putting  him 
in  mind  of  him,  or  you’ll  be  likely  summoned 
if  there’s  murder  done.  (Looking  round  at 
Mahon.)  Whisht!  He’s  listening.  Wait  now 
till  you  hear  me  taking  him  easy  and  unravel- 
ling all.  (She  goes  to  Mahon.)  And  what 
way  are  you  feeling,  mister?  Are  you  in  con- 
tentment now? 

MAHON  — slightly  emotional  from  his 
drink. — I’m  poorly  only,  for  it’s  a hard  story 
the  way  I’m  left  to-day,  when  it  was  I did  tend 
him  from  his  hour  of  birth,  and  he  a dunce 
never  reached  his  second  book,  the  way  he’d 
come  from  school,  many’s  the  day,  with  his 
legs  lamed  under  him,  and  he  blackened  with 
his  beatings  like  a tinker’s  ass.  It’s  a hard 
story.  I’m  saying,  the  way  some  do  have  their 


THE  Western  World  8i 

next  and  nighest  raising  up  a hand  of  murder 
on  them,  and  some  is  lonesome  getting  their 
death  with  lamentation  in  the  dead  of  night. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — not  knowing  what  to 
say. — To  hear  you  talking  so  quiet,  who’d 
know  you  were  the  same  fellow  we  seen  pass 
to-day  ? 

^ MAHON.  I’m  the  same  surely.  The 
wrack  and  ruin  of  three  score  years;  and  it’s 
a terror  to  live  that  length,  I tell  you,  and  to 
have  your  sons  going  to  the  dogs  against  you, 
and  you  wore  out  scolding  them,  and  skelping 
them,  and  God  knows  what. 

PHILLY  — to  Jimmy. — He’s  not  raving. 
{To  Widow  Quin.)  Will  you  ask  him  what 
kind  was  his  son? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — to  Mahon,  with  a pecul- 
iar look. — Was  your  son  that  hit  you  a lad  of 
one  year  and  a score  maybe,  a great  hand  at 
racing  and  lepping  and  licking  the  world? 

MAHON  — turning  on  her  with  a roar  of 
rage. — Didn’t  you  hear  me  say  he  was  the 
fool  of  men,  the  way  from  this  out  he’ll  know 
the  orphan’s  lot  with  old  and  young  making 
game  of  him  and  they  swearing,  raging,  kick- 
ing at  him  like  a mangy  cur. 

[A  great  burst  of  cheering  outside,  some 
way  off. 


82 


The  Playboy  of 


MAHON  — putting  his  hands  to  his  ears. — 
What  in  the  name  of  God  do  they  want  roar- 
ing below? 

WIDOW  QUIN  — with  the  shade  of  a 
smile. — They’re  cheering  a young  lad,  the 
champion  Playboy  of  the  Western  World. 

[More  cheering. 

MAHON  — going  to  window. — It’d  split 
my  heart  to  hear  them,  and  I with  pulses  in 
my  brain-pan  for  a week  gone  by.  Is  it  racing 
they  are? 

JIMMY  — looking  from  door. — It  is  then. 
They  are  mounting  him  for  the  mule  race  will 
be  run  upon  the  sands.  That’s  the  playboy 
on  the  winkered  mule. 

MAHON  — puzzled. — That  lad,  is  it?  If 
you  said  it  was  a fool  he  was,  I’d  have  laid  a 
mighty  oath  he  was  the  likeness  of  my  wander- 
ing son  {uneasily,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
head).  Faith,  I’m  thinking  I’ll  go  walking  for 
to  view  the  race. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — stopping  him,  sharply. 
— You  will  not.  You’d  best  take  the  road  to 
Belmullet,  and  not  be  dilly-dallying  in  this 
place  where  there  isn’t  a spot  you  could  sleep. 

PHILLY  — coming  forward. — Don’t  mind 
her.  Mount  there  on  the  bench  and  you’ll  have 
a view  of  the  whole.  They’re  hurrying  before 


THE  Western  World  83 

the  tide  will  rise,  and  it’d  be  near  over  if  you 
went  down  the  pathway  through  the  crags 
below. 

MAHON  — mounts  on  bench,  Widow  Quin 
beside  him. — That’s  a right  view  again  the 
edge  of  the  sea.  They’re  coming  now  from 
the  point.  He’s  leading.  Who  is  he  at  all? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  He’s  the  champion  of 
the  world,  I tell  you,  and  there  isn’t  a hop’orth 
isn’t  falling  lucky  to  his  hands  to-day. 

PHILLY  — looking  out,  interested  in  the 
race. — Look  at  that.  They’re  pressing  him 
now. 

JIMMY.  He’ll  win  it  yet. 

PHILLY.  Take  your  time,  Jimmy  Farrell. 
It’s  too  soon  to  say. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — shouting. — Watch  him 
taking  the  gate.  There’s  riding. 

JIMMY  — cheering. — More  power  to  the 
young  lad! 

MAHON.  He’s  passing  the  third. 

JIMMY.  He’ll  lick  them  yet! 

WIDOW  QUIN.  He’d  lick  them  if  he  was 
running  races  with  a score  itself. 

MAHON.  Look  at  the  mule  he  has,  kick- 
ing the  stars. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  There  was  a lep! 
(^catching  hold  of  Mahon  in  her  excitement.) 


The  Playboy  of 


84 

He’s  fallen ! He’s  mounted  again ! Faith,  he’s 
passing  them  all ! 

JIMMY.  Look  at  him  skelping  her! 

PHILLY.  And  the  mountain  girls  hoosh- 
ing  him  on ! 

JIMMY.  It’s  the  last  turn!  The  post’s 
cleared  for  them  now! 

MAHON.  Look  at  the  narrow  place.  He’ll 
be  into  the  bogs!  (With  a yell.)  Good  rider! 
He’s  through  it  again! 

JIMMY.  He  neck  and  neck! 

MAHON.  Good  boy  to  him ! Flames,  but 
he’s  in!  [Great  cheering,  in  which  all  join. 

MAHON  — with  hesitation. — ^What’s  that? 
They’re  raising  him  up.  They’re  coming  this 
way.  (With  a roar  of  rage  and  astonish- 
ment.) It’s  Christy!  by  the  stars  of  God!  I’d 
know  his  way  of  spitting  and  he  astride  the 
moon. 

[He  jumps  down  and  makes  for  the  door, 
but  Widow  Quin  catches  him  and  pulls 
him  hack. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Stay  quiet,  will  you. 
That’s  not  your  son.  (To  Jimmy.)  Stop  him, 
or  you’ll  get  a month  for  the  abetting  of  man- 
slaughter and  be  fined  as  well. 

JIMMY.  ni  hold  him. 

MAHON  — struggling. — Let  me  out ! Let 


THE  Western  World  85 

me  out,  the  lot  of  you ! till  I have  my  vengeance 
on  his  head  to-day. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — shaking  him,  vehement- 
ly.— That’s  not,  your  son.  That’s  a man  is 
going  to  make  a marriage  with  the  daughter 
of  this  house,  a place  with  fine  trade,  with  a 
license,  and  with  poteen  too. 

MAHON  — amazed. — That  man  marrying 
a decent  and  a moneyed  girl ! Is  it  mad  yous 
are?  Is  it  in  a crazy-house  for  females  that 
I’m  landed  now? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  It’s  mad  yourself  is  with 
the  blow  upon  your  head.  That  lad  is  the 
wonder  of  the  Western  World. 

MAHON.  I seen  it’s  my  son. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  You  seen  that  you’re 
mad.  (Cheering  outside.)  Do  you  hear  them 
cheering  him  in  the  zig-zags  of  the  road? 
Aren’t  you  after  saying  that  your  son’s  a fool, 
and  how  would  they  be  cheering  a true  idiot 
born? 

MAHON  — getting  distressed. — It’s  may- 
be out  of  reason  that  that  man’s  himself. 
(Cheering  again.)  There’s  none  surely  will 
go  cheering  him.  Oh,  I’m  raving  with  a mad- 
ness that  would  fright  the  world!  (He  sits 
down  with  his  hand  to  his  head.)  There  was 
one  time  I seen  ten  scarlet  divils  letting  on 


86 


The  Playboy  of 


they’d  cork  my  spirit  in  a gallon  can ; and  one 
time  I seen  rats  as  big  as  badgers  sucking  the 
life  blood  from  the  butt  of  my  lug;  but  I never 
till  this  day  confused  that  dribbling  idiot  with 
a likely  man.  I’m  destroyed  surely. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  And  who’d  wonder 
when  it’s  your  brain-pan  that  is  gaping  now? 

MAHON.  Then  the  blight  of  the  sacred 
drought  upon  myself  and  him,  for  I never 
went  mad  to  this  day,  and  I not  three  weeks 
with  the  Limerick  girls  drinking  myself  silly, 
and  parlatic  from  the  dusk  to  dawn.  {To 
Widow  Quin,  suddenly.)  Is  my  visage  astray? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  It  is  then.  You’re  a 
sniggering  maniac,  a child  could  see. 

MAHON  — getting  up  more  cheerfully. — 
Then  I’d  best  be  going  to  the  union  beyond, 
and  there’ll  be  a welcome  before  me,  I tell 
you  {with  great  pride),  and  I a terrible  and 
fearful  case,  the  way  that  there  I was  one  time, 
screeching  in  a straightened  waistcoat,  with 
seven  doctors  writing  out  my  sayings  in  a 
printed  book.  Would  you  believe  that? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  If  you’re  a wonder  it- 
self, you’d  best  be  hasty,  for  them  lads  caught 
a maniac  one  time  and  pelted  the  poor  creature 
till  he  ran  out,  raving  and  foaming,  and  was 
drowned  in  the  sea. 


THE  Western  World  87 

MAHON  — with  philosophy. — It’s  true 
mankind  is  the  divil  when  your  head’s  astray. 

Let  me  out  now  and  I’ll  slip  down  the  boreen, 
and  not  see  them  so. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — showing  him  out. — 
That’s  it.  Run  to  the  right,  and  not  a one  will 
see.  \^He  runs  off. 

PHILLY  — wisely. — You’re  at  some  gam- 
ing, Widow  Quin;  but  I’ll  walk  after  him  and 
give  him  his  dinner  and  a time  to  rest,  and  I’ll 
see  then  if  he’s  raving  or  as  sane  as  you. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — annoyed. — If  you  go 
near  that  lad,  let  you  be  wary  of  your  head. 

I’m  saying.  Didn’t  you  hear  him  telling  he 
was  crazed  at  times? 

PHILLY.  I heard  him  telling  a power;  1^ 
and  I’m  thinking  we’ll  have  right  sport,  before  | 
night  will  fall.  [^He  goes  out. 

JIMMY.  Well,  Philly’s  a conceited  and 
foolish  man.  How  could  that  madman  have 
his  senses  and  his  brain-pan  slit?  I’ll  go  after 
them  and  see  him  turn  on  Philly  now. 

\_He  goes;  Widow  Quin  hides  poteen 
behind  counter.  Then  hubbub  outside. 

VOICES.  There  you  are!  Good  jumper! 
Grand  lepper!  Darlint  boy!  He’s  the  racer! 
Bear  him  on,  will  you ! 

[Christy  comes  in,  in  Jockey’s  dress,  with 


88 


The  Playboy  of 


Pegeen  Mike,  Sara,  and  other  girls, 
and  men. 

PEGEEN  — to  crowd. — Go  on  now  and 
don’t  destroy  him  and  he  drenching  with 
sweat.  Go  along,  Pm  saying,  and  have  your 
tug-of-war  ring  till  he’s  dried  his  skin. 

CROWD.  Here’s  his  prizes ! A bagpipes ! 
A fiddle  was  played  by  a poet  in  the  years 
gone  by ! A flat  and  three-thorned  blackthorn 
would  lick  the  scholars  out  of  Dublin  town ! 

CHRISTY  — taking  prizes  from  the  men. 
— Thank  you  kindly,  the  lot  of  you.  But  you’d 
say  it  was  little  only  I did  this  day  if  you’d 
seen  me  a while  since/ striking  my  one  single 
blow. 

TOWN  CRIER  -r-  outside,  ringing  a hell. 
— Take  notice,  last  event  of  this  day!  Tug- 
of-warring  on  the  green  below ! Come  on,  the 
lot  of  you!  Great  achievements  for  all  Mayo 
men! 

PEGEEN.  Go  on,  and  leave  him  for  to 
rest  and  dry.  Go  on,  I tell  you,  for  he’ll  do 
no  more.  {She  hustles  crowd  out;  Widow 
Quin  following  them.) 

MEN  — going. — Come  on  then.  Good 
luck  for  the  while! 

PEGEEN  — radiantly,  wiping  his  face  with 
her  shawl. — Well,  you’re  the  lad,  and  you’ll 


THE  Western  World  89 

have  great  times  from  this  out  when  you  could 
win  that  wealth  of  prizes,  and  you  sweating  in 
the  heat  of  noon! 

CHRISTY  — looking  at  her  with  delight. — 
I’ll  have  great  times  if  I win  the  crowning 
prize  I’m  seeking  now,  and  that’s  your  promise 
that  you’ll  wed  me  in  a fortnight,  when  our 
banns  is  called. 

PEGEEN  — hacking  away  from  him. — 
You’ve  right  daring  to  go  ask  me  that,  when 
all  knows  you’ll  be  starting  to  some  girl  in 
your  own  townland,  when  your  father’s  rotten 
in  four  months,  or  five. 

CHRISTY  — indignantly. — Starting  from 
you,  is  it?  (He  follows  her.)  I will  not,  then, 
and  when  the  airs  is  warming  in  four  months, 
or  five,  it’s  then  yourself  and  me  should  be 
pacing  Neifin  in  the  dews  of  night,  the  times 
sweet  smells  do  be  rising,  and  you’d  see  a little 
shiny  new  moon,  maybe,  sinking  on  the  hills. 

PEGEEN  — looking  at  him  playfully. — 
And  it’s  that  kind  of  a poacher’s  love  you’d 
make,  Christy  Mahon,  on  the  sides  of  Neifin, 
when  the  night  is  down  ? 

CHRISTY.  It’s  little  you’ll  think  if  my 
love’s  a poacher’s,  or  an  earl’s  itself,  when 
you’ll  feel  my  two  hands  stretched  around  you, 
and  I squeezing  kisses  on  your  puckered  lips, 


90 


The  Playboy  of 


till  I’d  feel  a kind  of  pity  for  the  Lord  God 
is  all  ages  sitting  lonesome  in  his  golden  chair. 

PEGEEN.  That’ll  be  right  fun,  Christy 
Mahon,  and  any  girl  would  walk  her  heart  out 
before  she’d  meet  a young  man  was  your  like 
for  eloquence,  or  talk,  at  all. 

CHRISTY  — encouraged. — Let  you  wait, 
to  hear  me  talking,  till  we’re  astray  in  Erris, 
when  Good  Friday’s  by,  drinking  a sup- from  a 
well,  and  making  mighty  kisses  with  our  wet- 
ted mouths,  or  gaming  in  a gap  or  sunshine, 
with  yourself  stretched  back  unto  your  neck- 
lace, in  the  flowers  of  the  earth. 

PEGEEN  — in  a lower  voice,  moved  by  his 
tone. — I’d  be  nice  so,  is  it  ? 

CHRISTY  — with  rapture. — If  the  mitred 
bishops  seen  you  that  time,  they’d  be  the  like 
of  the  holy  prophets,  I’m  thinking,  do  be 
straining  the  bars  of  Paradise  to  lay  eyes  on 
the  Lady  Helen  of  Troy,  and  she  abroad,  pac- 
ing back  and  forward,  with  a nosegay  in  her 
golden  shawl. 

PEGEEN  — with  real  tenderness. — And 
what  is  it  I have,  Christy  Mahon,  to  make  me 
fitting  entertainment  for  the  like  of  you,  that 
has  such  poet’s  talking,  and  such  bravery  of 
heart  ? 

CHRISTY  — in  a low  voice. — Isn’t  there 


THE  Western  World 


91 


the  light  of  seven  heavens  in  your  heart  alone, 
the  way  you’ll  be  an  angel’s  lamp  to  me  from 
this  out,  and  I abroad  in  the  darkness,  spear- 
ing salmons  in  the  Owen,  or  the  Carrowmore  ? 

PEGEEN.  If  I was  your  wife,  I’d  be 
along  with  you  those  nights,  Christy  Mahon, 
the  way  you’d  see  I was  a great  hand  at  coax- 
ing bailiffs,  or  coining  funny  nick-names  for 
the  stars  of  night. 

CHRISTY.  You,  is  it?  Taking  your  death 
in  the  hailstones,  or  in  the  fogs  of  dawn. 

PEGEEN.  Yourself  and  me  would  shelter 
easy  in  a narrow  bush,  (with  a qualm  of 
dread)  but  we’re  only  talking,  maybe,  for  this 
would  be  a poor,  thatched  place  to  hold  a fine 
lad  is  the  like  of  you. 

CHRISTY  — putting  his  arm  round  her. — 
If  I wasn’t  a good  Christian,  it’s  on  my  naked 
knees  I’d  be  saying  my  prayers  and  paters  to 
every  jackstraw  you  have  roofing  your  head, 
and  every  stony  pebble  is  paving  the  laneway 
to  your  door. 

PEGEEN  — radiantly. — If  that’s  the  truth, 
I’ll  be  burning  candles  from  this  out  to  the 
miracles  of  God  that  have  brought  you  from 
the  south  to-day,  and  I,  with  my  gowns  bought 
ready,  the  way  that  I can  wed  you,  and  not 
wait  at  all. 


92 


The  Playboy  of 


CHRISTY.  It’s  miracles,  and  that’s  the 
truth.  Me  there  toiling  a long  while,  and  walk- 
ing a long  while,  not  knowing  at  all  I was 
drawing  all  times  nearer  to  this  holy  day. 

PEGEEN.  And  myself,  a girl,  was 
tempted  often  to  go  sailing  the  seas  till  I’d 
marry  a Jew-man,  with  ten  kegs  of  gold,  and 
I not  knowing  at  all  there  was  the  like  of  you 
drawing  nearer,  like  the  stars  of  God. 

CHRISTY.  And  to  think  I’m  long^' years 
hearing  women  talking  that  talk,  to  all  bloody 
fools,  and  this  the  first  time  I’ve  heard  the  like 
of  your  voice  talking  sweetly  for  my  own  de- 
light. 

PEGEEN.  And  to  think  it’s  me  is  talking 
sweetly,  Christy  Mahon,  and  I the  fright  of 
seven  townlands  for  my  biting  tongue.  Well, 
the  heart’s  a wonder;  and.  I’m  thinking,  there 
won’t  be  our  like  in  Mayo,  for  gallant  lovers, 
from  this  hour,  to-day.  {Drunken  singing  is 
heard  outside.)  There’s  my  father  coming 
from  the  wake,  and  when  he’s  had  his  sleep 
we’ll  tell  him,  for  he’s  peaceful  then. 

[They  separate. 

MICHAEL  — singing  outside  — 

The  jailor  and  the  turnkey 
They  quickly  ran  us  down. 


THE  Western  World  93 

And  brought  us  back  as  prisoners 
Once  more  to  Cavan  town. 

[He  comes  in  supported  by  Shawn. 

There  we  lay  bewailing 
All  in  a prison  bound.  . . . 

[He  sees  Christy.  Goes  and  shakes  him 
drunkenly  by  the  hand,  while  Pegeen 
and  Shawn  talk  on  the  left. 

MICHAEL  — to  Christy. — The  blessing  of 
God  and  the  holy  angels  on  your  head,  young 
fellow.  I hear  tell  you’re  after  winning  all  in 
the  sports  below ; and  wasn’t  it  a shame  I didn’t 
bear  you  along  with  me  to  Kate  Cassidy’s 
wake,  a fine,  stout  lad,  the  like  of  you,  for 
you’d  never  see  the  match  of  it  for  flows  of 
drink,  the  way  when  we  sunk  her  bones  at 
noonday  in  her  narrow  grave,  there  were  five 
men,  aye,  and  six  men,  stretched  out  retching 
speechless  on  the  holy  stones. 

CHRISTY  — uneasily,  watching  Pegeen. — 
Is  that  the  truth  ? 

MICHAEL.  It  is  then,  and  aren’t  you  a 
louty  schemer  to  go  burying  your  poor  father 
unbeknownst  when  you’d  a right  to  throw  him 
on  the  crupper  of  a Kerry  mule  and  drive  him 
westwards,  like  holy  Joseph  in  the  days  gone 
by,  the  way  we  could  have  given  him  a decent 
burial,  and  not  have  him  rotting  beyond,  and 


94 


The  Playboy  of 


not  a Christian  drinking  a smart  drop  to  the 
glory  of  his  soul  ? 

CHRISTY  — gruffly. — It’s  well  enough 
he’s  lying,  for  the  likes  of  him. 

MICHAEL  — slapping  him  on  the  back. — 
Well,  aren’t  you  a hardened  slayer  ? It’ll  be  a 
poor  thing  for  the  household  man  where  you 
go  sniffing  for  a female  wife;  and  {pointing 
to  Shawn)  look  beyond  at  that  shy  and  decent 
Christian  I have  chosen  for  my  daughter’s 
hand,  and  I after  getting  the  gilded  dispensa- 
tion this  day  for  to  wed  them  now. 

CHRISTY.  And  you’ll  be  wedding  them 
this  day,  is  it  ? 

MICHAEL  — drawing  himself  up. — Aye. 
Are  you  thinking,  if  I’m  drunk  itself,  I’d  leave 
my  daughter  living  single  with  a little  frisky 
rascal  is  the  like  of  you  ? 

PEGEEN  — breaking  away  from  Shawn. — 
Is  it  the  truth  the  dispensation’s  come? 

MICHAEL  — triumphantly.  — Father 
Reilly’s  after  reading  it  in  gallons  Latin,  and 
“ It’s  come  in  the  nick  of  time,”  says  he ; “ so 
I’ll  wed  them  in  a hurry,  dreading  that  young 
gaffer  who’d  capsize  the  stars.” 

PEGEEN  — fiercely. — He’s  missed  his 
nick  of  time,  for  it’s  that  lad,  Christy  Mahon, 
that  I’m  wedding  now. 


THE  Western  World 


95 


MICHAEL  — loudly  with  horror. — You’d 
be  making  him  a son  to  me,  and  he  wet  and 
crusted  with  his  father’s  blood  ? 

PEGEEN.  Aye.  Wouldn’t  it  be  a bitter 
thing  for  a girl  to  go  marrying  the  like  of 
Shaneen,  and  he  a middling  kind  of  a scare- 
crow, with  no  savagery  or  fine  words  in  hin|^, 
at  all? 

MICHAEL  — gasping  and  sinking  on  a 
chair. — Oh,  aren’t  you  a heathen  daughter  to 
go  shaking  the  fat  of  my  heart,  and  I swamped 
and  drownded  with  the  weight  of  drink? 
Would  you  have  them  turning  on  me  the  way 
that  I’d  be  roaring  to  the  dawn  of  day  with 
the  wind  upon  my  heart?  Have  you  not  a 
word  to  aid  me,  Shaneen  ? Are  you  not 
jealous  at  all? 


SHANEEN  — In  great  misery. — I’d  be  1 
afeard  to  be  jealous  of  a man  did  slay  his  da. 

PEGEEN.  Well,  it’d  be  a poor  thing  to  go 
marrying  your  like.  I’m  seeing  there’s  a 
world  of  peril  for  an  orphan  girl,  and  isn’t  it 
a great  blessing  I didn’t  wed  you,  before  him- 
self came  walking  from  the  west  or  south? 

SHAWN.  It’s  a queer  story  you’d  go 
picking  a dirty  tramp  up  from  the  highways 
of  the  world. 

PEGEEN  — playfully. — And  you  think 


The  Playboy  of 


96 

you’re  a likely  beau  to  go  straying  along  with, 
the  shiny  Sundays  of  the  opening  year,  when 
it’s  sooner  on  a bullock’s  liver  you’d  put  a poor 
girl  thinking  than  on  the  lily  or  the  rose? 

/ SHAWN.  And  have  you  no  mind  of  my 
' weight  of  passion,  and  the  holy  dispensation, 

1 and  the  drift  of  heifers  I am  giving,  and  the 
\golden  ring? 

PEGEEN.  I’m  thinking  you’re  too  fine 
for  the  like  of  me,  Shawn  Keogh  of  Killakeen, 
and  let  you  go  off  till  you’d  find  a radiant  lady 
with  droves  of  bullocks  on  the  plains  of  Meath, 
and  herself  bedizened  in  the  diamond  jewel- 
leries of  Pharaoh’s  ma.  That’d  be  your 
match,  Shaneen.  So  God  save  you  now! 

[She  retreats  behind  Christy. 

SHAWN.  Won’t  you  hear  me  telling 
you.  . ? 

CHRISTY  — with  ferocity. — Take  your- 
self from  this,  young  fellow,  or  I’ll  maybe  add 
a murder  to  my  deeds  to-day. 

MICHAEL — springing  up  with  a shriek. — 
Murder  is  it?  Is  it  mad  yous  are?  Would 
you  go  making  murder  in  this  place,  and  it 
piled  with  poteen  for  our  drink  to-night?  Go 

/on  to  the  foreshore  if  it’s  fighting  you  want, 
where  the  rising  tide  will  wash  all  traces  from 
the  memory  of  man. 

[Pushing  Shawn  towards  Christy. 


THE  Western  World  97 

SHAW^N  — shaking  himself  free,  and  get- 
ting behind  Michael. — I’ll  not  fight  him, 
Michael  James.  I’d  liefer  live  a bachelor,  sim-  ; 
mering  in  passions  to  the  end  of  time,  than 
face  a lepping  savage  the  like  of  him  has  de- 
scended from  the  Lord  knows  where.  Strike 
him  yourself,  Michael  James,  or  you’ll  lose 
my  drift  of  heifers  and  my  blue  bull  from 
Sneem. 

MICHAEL.  Is  it  me  fight  him,  when  it’s 
father-slaying  he’s  bred  to  now?  {Pushing 
Shawn.)  Go  on  you  fool  and  fight  him  now. 

SHAWN  — coming  forward  a little. — Will 
I strike  him  with  my  hand? 

MICHAEL.  Take  the  loy  is  on  your 
western  side. 

SHAWN.  I’d  be  afeard  of  the  gallows  if 
I struck  him  with  that. 

CHRISTY  — taking  up  the  loy. — Then  I’ll 
make  you  face  the  gallows  or  quit  off  from 
this.  {Shawn  flies  out  of  the  door. 

CHRISTY.  Well,  fine  weather  be  after 
him,  (going  to  Michael,  coaxingly)  and  I’m 
thinking  you  wouldn’t  wish  to  have  that 
quaking  blackguard  in  your  house  at  all.  Let 
you  give  us  your  blessing  and  hear  her  swear 
her  faith  to  me,  for  I’m  mounted  on  the  spring- 
tide  of  the  stars  of  luck,  the  way  it’ll  be  good 
for  any  to  have  me  in  the  house. 


98 


The  Playboy  of 


PEGEEN  — at  the  other  side  of  Michael. — 
Bless  us  now,  for  I swear  to  God  I’ll  wed  him, 
and  I’ll  not  ^ne^. 

MICHAEL  — standing  up  in  the  centre, 
holding  on  to  both  of  them. — It’s  the  will  oF^, 
God,  I’m  thinking,  that  all  should  win  an  easy/ 
or  a cruel  end,  and  it’s  the  will  of  God  that  all^) 
should  rear  up  lengthy  families  for  the  nurtur 
of  the  earth.  What’s  a single  man,  I ask  you, 
eating  a bit  in  one  house  and  drinking  a sup 
in  another,  and  he  with  no  place  of  his  own, 
like  an  old  braying  jackass  strayed  upon  the 
rocks?  {To  Christy.)  It’s  many  would  be  in 
dread  to  bring  your  like  into  their  house  for 
to  end  them,  maybe,  with  a sudden  end;  but 
I’m  a decent  man  of  Ireland,  and  I liefer  face 
the  grave  untimely  and  I seeing  a score  of 
grandsons  growing  up  little  gallant  swearers 
by  the  name  of  God,  than  go  peopling  my  bed- 
side with  puny  weeds  the  like  of  what  you’d 
breed.  I’m  thinking,  out  of  Shaneen  Keogh. 
{He  joins  their  hands.)  A daring  fellow  iS'-X, 
the  jewel  of  the  world,  and  a man  did  split  his 
father’s  middle  with  a single  clout,  should  have 
the  bravery  of  ten,  so  may  God  and  Mary  and 
St.  Patrick  bless  you,  and  increase  you  from 
this  mortal  day. 


THE  Western  World 


99 


CHRISTY  AND  PEGEEN.  Anien,  O 
lx>rd!  [Hubbub  outside, 

[Old  Mahon  rushes  in,  followed  by  all  the 
crowd,  and  Widow  Quin.  He  makes 
a rush  at  Christy,  knocks  him  down, 
and  begins  to  beat  him. 

PEGEEN  — dragging  back  his  arm. — Stop 
that,  will  you.  Who  are  you  at  all? 

MAHON.  His  father,  God  forgive  me! 

PEGEEN  — drawing  back. — Is  it  rose 
from  the  dead? 

MAHON.  Do  you  think  I look  so  easy 
quenched  with  the  tap  of  a loy? 

[Beats  Christy  again}\^ 

PEGEEN  — glaring  at  Christy. — And  it’s 
lies  you  told,  letting  on  you  had  him  slitted, 
and  you  nothing  at  all. 

CHRISTY  — catching  Mahon’s  stick. — 
He’s  not  my  father.  He’s  a raving  maniac 
would  scare  the  world.  (^Pointing  to  Widow 
Quin.)  Herself  knows  it  is  true. 

CROWD.  You’re  fooling  Pegeen!  The 
Widow  Quin  seen  him  this  day,  and  you  likely 
knew!  You’re  a liar! 

CHRISTY  — dumbfounded. — It’s  himself 
was  a liar,  lying  stretched  out  with  an  open 
head  on  him,  letting  on  he  was  dead. 

MAHON.  Weren’t  you  off  racing  the  hills 


100 


The  Playboy  of 


before  I got  my  breath  with  the  start  I had 
seeing  you  turn  on  me  at  all  ? 

PEGEEN.  And  to  think  of  the  coaxing 
glory  we  had  given  him,  and  he  after  doing 
nothing  but  hitting  a soft  blow  and  chasing 
northward  in  a sweat  of  fear.  Quit  off  from 
this. 

CHRISTY  — piteously. — You’ve  seen  my 
doings  this  day,  and  let  you  save  me  from  the 
old  man;  for  why  would  you  be  in  such  a 
scorch  of  haste  to  spur  me  to  destruction  now  ? 

PEGEEN.  It’s  there  your  treachery  is 
spurring  me,  till  I’m  hard  set  to  think  you’re 
the  one  I’m  after  lacing  in  my  heart-strings 
half-an-hour  gone  by.  {To  Mahon.)  Take 
him  on  from  this,  for  I think  bad  the  world 
should  see  me  raging  for  a Muijster  liar,  and, 
the  fool  of  men, 

MAHON.  Rise  up  now  to  retribution,  and 
come  on  with  me. 

CROWD  — jeeringly. — There’^  the  play- 
boy! There’s  the  lad  thought  he’d  rule  the 
roost  in  Mayo.  Slate  him  now,  mister. 

CHRISTY  — getting  up  in  shy  terror. — 
What  is  it  drives  you  to  torment  me  here,  when 
I’d  asked  the  thunders  of  the  might  of  God 
to  blast  me  if  I ever  did  hurt  to  any  saving 
only  that  one  single  blow. 


THE  Western  World  ioi 

MAHON  — loudly. — If  you  didn’t,  you’re 
a poor  good-for-nothing,  and  isn’t  it  by  the 
like  of  you  the  sins  of  the  whole  world  are 
committed  ? 

CHRISTY  — raising  his  hands. — In  the 
name  of  the  Almighty  God.  . . . 

MAHON.  Leave  troubling  the  Lord  God.^ 
Would  you  have  him  sending  down  droughts, 
and  fevers,  and  the  old  hen  and  the  cholera 
morbus  ? 

CHRISTY  — to  Widow  Quin. — Will  you 
come  between  us  and  protect  me  now? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  I’ve  tried  a lot,  God  help 
me,  and  my  share  is  done. 

CHRISTY  — looking  round  in  desperation. 
— And  I must  go  back  into  my  torment  is  it, 
or  run  off  like  a vagabond  straying  through 
the  Unions  with  the  dusts  of  August  making 
mudstains  in  the  gullet  of  my  throat,  or  the 
winds  of  March  blowing  on  me  till  I’d  take  an 
oath  I felt  them  making  whistles  of  my  ribs 
within  ? 

SARA.  Ask  Pegeen  to  aid  you.  Her  like 
does  often  change. 

CHRISTY.  I will  not  then,  for  there’s  tor- 
ment in  the  splendour  of  her  like,  and  she  a 
girl  any  moon  of  midnight  would  take  pride 
to  meet,  facing  southwards  on  the  heaths  of 


102 


The  Playboy  of 


Keel.  But  what  did  I want  crawling  forward 
to  scorch  my  understanding  at  her  flaming 
brow? 

PEGEEN  — to  Mahon,  vehemently,  fear- 
ing she  will  break  into  tears. — Take  him  on 
from  this  or  I’ll  set  the  young  lads  to  destroy 
him  here. 

MAHON  — going  to  him,  shaking  his 
stick. — Come  on  now  if  you  wouldn’t  have  the 
company  to  see  you  skelped. 

’ PEGEEN  — half  laughing,  through  her 
tears. — That’s  it,  now  the  world  will  see  him 
pandied,  and  he  an  ugly  liar  was  playing  off  the 
hi^o,  and  the  fright  of  men. 

CHRISTY  — to  Mahon,  very  sharply. — 
Leave  me  go ! 

CROWD.  That’s  it.  Now  Christy.  If 
them  two  set  fighting,  it  will  lick  the  world. 

MAHON  — making  a grab  at  Christy. — 
Come  here  to  me. 

CHRISTY  — more  threateningly. — Leave 
me  go,  I’m  saying. 

MAHON.  I will  maybe,  when  your  legs 
is  limping,  and  your  back  is  blue. 

CROWD.  Keep  it  up,  the  two  of  you.  I’ll 
back  the  old  one.  Now  the  playboy. 

CHRISTY  — in  low  and  intense  voice. — 
Shut  your  yelling,  for  if  you’re  after  making 


THE  Western  World 


103 


a mighty  man  of  me  this  day  by  the  power  of 
a lie,  you’re  setting  me  now  to  think  jf_  it’s  a ; 
poor  thing  to  be  lonesome,  it’s  worse  maybe  to  I 
go  mixing  with  the  fools  of  eaxth.  I 

[Mahon  makes  a movement  towards  him. 

CHRISTY  — almost  shouting. — Keep  off 
. . . lest  I do  show  a blow  unto  the  lot  of  you 
would  set  the  guardian  angels  winking  in  the 
clouds  above. 

[He  swings  round  with  a sudden  rapid 
movement  and  picks  up  a loy. 

CROWD  — half  frightened,  half  amused. — 
He’s  going  mad ! Mind  yourselves ! Run  from 
the  idiot! 

CHRISTY.  If  I am  an  idiot.  I’m  after 
hearing  my  voice  this  day  saying  words  would 
raise  the  topknot  on  a poet  in  a merchant’s  i 
town.  I’ve  won  your  racing,  and  your  lepping, 

and  ... 

MAHON.  Shut  your  gullet  and  come  on 
with  me. 

CHRISTY.  I’m  going,  but  I’ll  stretch  you 
first. 

[He  runs  at  old  Mahon  with  the  loy, 
chases  him  out  of  the  door,  followed  by 
crowd  and  Widow  Quin.  There  is  a 
great  noise  outside,  then  a yell,  and 
dead  silence  for  a moment.  Christy 
(omes  in,  half  dazed,  and  goes  to  fire. 


104  The  Playboy  of 

WIDOW  QUIN  — coming  in,  hurriedly, 
and  going  to  him. — They’re  turning  again 
you.  Come  on,  or  you’ll  be  hanged,  indeed. 

CHRISTY.  I’m  thinking,  from  this  out, 
Pegeen’ll  be  giving  me  praises  the  same  as  in 
the  hours  gone  by. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — impatiently. — Come  by 
the  back-door.  I’d  think  bad  to  have  vou 
stifled  on  the  gallows  tree. 

CHRISTY  — indignantly. — I will  not, 

then.  What  good’d  be  my  life-time,  if  I left 
Pegeen  ? 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Come  on,  and  you’ll  be 
no  worse  than  you  were  last  night;  and  you 
with  a double  murder  this  time  to  be  telling  to 
the  girls. 

CHRISTY.  I’ll  not  leave  Pegeen  Mike. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — impatiently. — Isn’t 
there  the  match  of  her  in  every  parish  public, 
from  Binghamstown  unto  the  plain  of  Meath? 
Come  on,  I tell  you,  and  I’ll  find  you  finer 
sweethearts  at  each  waning  moon. 

CHRISTY.  It’s  Pegeen  I’m  seeking  only, 
and  what’d  I care  if  you  brought  me  a drift  of 
chosen  females,  standing  in  their  shifts  itself, 
maybe,  from  this  place  to  the  Eastern  World? 

SARA  — runs  in,  pulling  off  one  of  her 
petticoats. — They’re  going  to  bang  him. 


THE  Western  World 


105 

(^Holding  out  petticoat  and  shawl.)  Fit  these 
upon  him,  and  let  him  run  off  to  the  east. 

WIDOW  QUIN.  He’s  raving  now;  but 
we’ll  fit  them  on  him,  and  I’ll  take  him,  in  the 
ferry,  to  the  Achill  boat. 

CHRISTY  — struggling  feebly. — Leave/ 

me  go,  will  you?  when  I’m  thinking  of  my  luclj 
to-day,  for  she  will  wed  me  surely,  and  I 
proven  hero  in  the  end  of  all. 

[They  try  to  fasten  petticoat  round  him, 

WIDOW  QUIN.  Take  his  left  hand,  and 
we’ll  pull  him  now.  Come  on,  young  fellow. 

CHRISTY  — suddenly  starting  up. — 

You’ll  be  taking  me  from  her?  You’re  jealous, 
is  it,  of  her  wedding  me?  Go  on  from  this. 

[He  snatches  up  a stool,  and  threatens 
them  with  it. 

WIDOW  QUIN  — going. — It’s  in  the 
mad-house  they  should  put  him,  not  in  jail,  at 
all.  We’ll  go  by  the  back-door,  to  call  the 
doctor,  and  we’ll  save  him  so. 

[She  goes  out,  with  Sara,  through  inner 
room.  Men  crowd  in  the  doorway. 
Christy  sits  down  again  by  the  fire. 

MICHAEL  — in  a terrified  whisper. — Is 
the  old  lad  killed  surely? 

PHILLY.  I’m  after  feeling  the  last  gasps 
quitting  his  heart. 


The  Playboy  of 


[They  peer  in  at  Christy. 
MICHAEL  — with  a rope. — Look  at  the 
ay  he  is.  Twist  a hangman’s  knot  on  it,  and 
lip  it  over  his  head,  while  he’s  not  minding 
at  all. 

PHILLY.  Let  you  take  it,  Shaneen. 
You’re  the  soberest  of  all  that’s  here. 

SHAWN.  Is  it  me  to  go  near  him,  and  he 
the  wickedest  and  worst  with  me?  Let  you 
take  it,  Pegeen  Mike. 

PEGEEN.  Come  on,  so. 

[She  goes  forward  with  the  others,  and 
they  drop  the  double  hitch  over  his 
head. 


L 


CHRISTY.  What  ails  you? 

SHAWN  — triumphantly,  as  they  pull  the 
rope  tight  on  his  arms. — Come  on  to  the 
peelers,  till  they  stretch  you  now. 

CHRISTY.  Me! 

MICHAEL.  If  we  took  pity  on  you,  the 
Lord  God  would,  maybe,  bring  us  ruin  from 
the  law  to-day,  so  you’d  best  come  easy,  for 
hanging  is  an  easy  and  a speedy  end. 

CHRISTY.  I’ll  not  stir.  {To  Pegeen.) 
And  what  is  it  you’ll  say  to  me,  and  I after 
doing  it  this  time  in  the  face  of  all? 

PEGEEN.  I’ll  say,  a strange  man  is  a 
marvel,  with  his  mighty  talk;  but  what’s  a 


THE  Western  World 


107 


a squabble  in  your  back-yard,  and  the  blow  of 
a loy,  have  taught  me  that  there’s  a great  gap 
between  a gallons  story  and  a dirty  deed.  (To 
Men.)  Take  him  on  from  this,  or  the  lot  of 
us  will  be  likely  put  on  trial  for  his  deed  to-day. 

CHRISTY  — with  horror  in  his  voice. — 
And  it’s  yourself  will  send  me  off,  to  have  a 
horny-fingered  hangman  hitching  his  bloody 
slip-knots  at  the  butt  of  my  ear. 

MEN  — pulling  rope. — Come  on,  will  you  ? 

(He  is  pulled  down  on  the  floor. 

CHRISTY  — twisting  his  legs  round  the 
table. — Cut  the  rope,  Pegeen,  and  I’ll  quit  the 
lot  of  you,  and  live  from  this  out,  like  the  mad- 
men of  Keel,  eating  muck  and  green  weeds, 
on  the  faces  of  the  cliffs. 

PEGEEN.  And  leave  us  to  hang,  is  it,  for 
a saucy  liar,  the  like  of  you?  (To  men.)  Take 
him  on,  out  from  this. 

SHAWN.  Pull  a twist  on  his  neck,  and 
squeeze  him  so. 

PHILLY.  Twist  yourself.  Sure  he  can- 
not hurt  you,  if  you  keep  your  distance  from 
his  teeth  alone. 

SHAWN.  I’m  afeard  of  him.  (To 
Pegeen.)  Lift  a lighted  sod,  will  you,  and 
scorch  his  leg. 

PEGEEN  — blowing  the  fire,  with  a hel- 


io8  The  Playboy  of 

lows. — Leave  go  now,  young  fellow,  or  I’ll 
scorch  your  shins. 

CHRISTY.  You’re  blowing  for  to  torture 
me  {His  voice  rising  and  growing  stronger.) 
That’s  your  kind,  is  it?  Then  let  the  lot  of 
you  be  wary,  for,  if  I’ve  to  face  the  gallows. 
I’ll  have  a gay  march  down,  I tell  you,  and 
shed  the  blood  of  some  of  you  before  I die. 

SHAWN  — in  terror. — Keep  a good  hold, 
Philly.  Be  wary,  for  the  love  of  God.  For 
I’m  thinking  he  would  liefest  wreak  his  pains 
on  me. 

CHRISTY  — almost  gaily. — If  I do  lay 
my  hands  on  you,  it’s  the  way  you’ll  be  at  the 
fall  of  night,  hanging  as  z scarecrow  for  the 
fowls  of  hell.  Ah,  you’ll  have  a gallous  jaunt 
I’m  saying,  coaching  out  through  Limbo  with 
my  father’s  ghost. 

SHAWN  — to  Pegeen. — Make  haste,  will 
you?  Oh,  isn’t  he  a holy  terror,  and  isn’t  it 
true  for  Father  Reilly,  that  all  drink’s  a curse 
that  has  the  lot  of  you  so  shaky  and  uncertain 
now? 

CHRISTY.  If  I can  wring  a neck  among 
you,  I’ll  have  a royal  judgment  looking  on  the 
trembling  jury  in  the  courts  of  law.  And 
won’t  there  be  crying  out  in  Mayo  the  day  I’m 
stretched  upon  the  rope  with  ladies  in  their 


THE  Western  World  109 

silks  and  satins  snivelling  in  their  lacy  ker- 
chiefs, and  they  rhyming  songs  and  ballads  on 
the  terror  of  my  fate  ? 

[He  squirms  round  on  the  floor  and  bites 
Shawn’s  leg. 

SHAWN  — shrieking. — My  leg’s  bit  on 
me.  He’s  the  like  of  a mad  dog,  I’m  thinking, 
the  way  that  I will  surely  die. 

CHRISTY  — delighted  with  himself. — 
You  will  then,  the  way  you  can  shake  out  hell’s 
flags  of  welcome  for  my  coming  in  two  weeks 
or  three,  for  I’m  thinking  Satan  hasn’t  many 
have  killed  their  da  in  Kerry,  and  in  Mayo  too. 

[Old  Mahon  comes  in  behind  on  all  fours 
and  looks  on  unnoticed. 

MEN  — to  Pegeen. — Bring  the  sod,  will 
you? 

PEGEEN  — coming  over. — God  help  him 
so.  {Burns  his  leg.) 

CHRISTY  — kicking  and  screaming. — O, 
glory  be  to  God! 

[He  kicks  loose  from  the  table,  and  they 
all  drag  him  towards  the  door. 

JIMMY  — seeing  old  Mahon. — Will  you 
look  what’s  come  in? 

[They  all  drop  Christy  and  run  left. 

CHRISTY  — scrambling  on  his  knees  face 


no  The  Playboy  of 

to  face  with  old  Mahon. — Are  you  coming  to 
be  killed  a third  time,  or  what  ails  you  now  ? 

MAHON.  For  what  is  it  they  have  you 
tied? 

CHRISTY.  They’re  taking  me  to  the 
peelers  to  have  me  hanged  for  slaying  you. 

MICHAEL  — apologetically. — It  is  the 
will  of  God  that  all  should  guard  their  little 
cabins  from  the  treachery  of  law,  and  what 
would  my  daughter  be  doing  if  I was  ruined 
or  was  hanged  itself? 

MAHON  — grimly,  loosening  Christy. — 
It’s  little  I care  if  you  put  a bag  on  her  back, 
and  went  picking  cockles  till  the  hour  of  death; 
but  my  son  and  myself  will  be  going  our  own 
way,  and  we’ll  have  great  times  from  this  out 
telling  stories  of  the  villainy  of  Mayo,  and  the 
fools  is  here.  {To  Christy,  who  is  freed.) 
Come  on  now. 

CHRISTY.  Go  with  you,  is  it  ? I will 
then,  like  a gallant  captain  with  his  heathen 
slave.  Go  on  now  and  I’ll  see  you  from  this 
day  stewing  my  oatmeal  and  washing  my 
spuds,  for  I’m  master  of  all  fights  from  now. 
{Pushing  Mahon.)  Go  on.  I’m  saying. 

MAHON.  Is  it  me  ? 

CHRISTY.  Not  a word  out  of  you.  Go 
on  from  this. 


£ 


] 


1 


